Brad wore what looked like double knit polyester slacks—beige, of course. The Zanzibar type. And he wore a brown and beige velour shirt with yellow polyester piping. Dude so needed a style. His burgeoning belly peaked from under the edge of his shirt. He had man boobs. And I’m certain, if he’d turned around, we would have met Sir Norge as well.
Brad: Can I come in?
Ang: No. The porch is fine.
I stepped out on the porch and pulled the door a little so Kate couldn’t see but could still hear. I knew she was glued to the edge of the door listening and was ready to pounce in case Mr. Pitt turned into Son of Sam.
Brad: I was thinking you’d go out with me sometime.
Ang: Brad, do you understand how inappropriate it is for you to be here right now?
Brad: It’s no big deal. I do it all the time. I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d say hi and see if you wanted to go to the movie.
First of all, his school is about an hour’s drive from South Nashville and unless he moonlighted as a tree doctor on weekends there was absolutely nothing in my neighborhood that would draw him here.
Ang: Brad, I’m not going to the movie with you.
Brad: You sounded so beautiful on the phone, and you’re beautiful in real life!
Ang: Brad…
Brad: I don’t think I’ve ever gone out with a girl as beautiful as you.
Ang: Brad…
Brad: You have a perfect body.
Ang: Brad…
Brad: What size bra are you?
Pause. After my last two otherworldly dates, even this did not surprise me.
Ang: (Remarkably calm) Brad, it is apparent to me that you are not a regular in the world of dating. Neither am I, but I can tell you this: even if you were an eighth grader, there would be no appropriate juncture in conversation to ask a girl that question.
But Brad just couldn’t stop there. He had to jump off the ledge and into the Ang abyss.
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