Below is a scene I wrote recently. It's part of a larger storyline inspired by a commercial I saw which may someday evolve into a novel, I don't know. For some reason I usually write in a weird form of past tense, but I changed this to present. Sorry if I missed anything and it sounds out of place. Also, a disclaimer: sometimes my characters don't have the same morals that I do, and use language I wouldn't. Just a heads up.
Frank Bartolini and I had been talking on the dating site for a week or so now; about all the stuff you usually talk about when you first meet someone. He works in a lab at the hospital, running blood tests and other slightly gross scientific procedures. He loves to read, goes to the movies with his dad on Christmas day every year, and listens to Iron and Wine. Our conversations had been pleasant and I was looking forward to a rewarding evening.
We had arranged to meet at the park benches outside the building, and to wear something yellow so we would be able to find each other. I opted for a lemon yellow shirt to go with a warm brown skirt, and scanned the crowd as I walked for a match. Finally I spot him sitting and facing the other direction, wearing a long sleeved white shirt and mustard yellow vest. I smile, having a soft spot for guys who could pull off vests, and walk around to meet him face to face.
There, sitting on my bench, wearing my date’s yellow vest, is none other than Blaine Phillips. Shit, what is he doing here?
“Suzy…?” He stands to meet me. We look ridiculous in our matching outfits, confused to find each other there.
“Blaine? Why are you here? And wearing yellow?” For a second I am terribly afraid that I have fallen for the same trick Meg Ryan had in You’ve Got Mail, and that Blaine had been Frank the whole time. Please, God, don’t let Blaine be Frank.
“When Frank told me her name was Suzanne, I never even thought it would turn out to be you, of all people.”
“Wait, you know Frank? What’s going on? Where’s Frank? I am supposed to meet him here.” I am confused. The last person in the world I want to deal with is Blaine.
He sighs defeatedly. “Frank’s one of my roommates. He caught the flu, and talked me into coming and filling in for him. I owed him one.”
Frank isn’t coming. I am stuck with Blaine. Fuck.
“Look, Blaine, if you don’t want to stick around, I really don’t mind, I’ll just talk to Frank tomorrow …”
He was pacing. I could tell he wasn’t happy. “No, see, Frank made me promise to take the girl to dinner, I have to take him the receipt. He said Suzanne was a really great girl, he didn’t want to leave her hanging with nothing to do on a Friday night.” He looked disgusted. “If I had known it would be, you know, you, I wouldn’t have agreed to it.”
“So just order two meals to go, we split, he never knows the difference.” I know I would much rather not be here right now.
He smirks knowingly. “It’s obvious you haven’t actually met Frank. He knows the difference. Besides, I promised him I’d treat her – you – the same way he would. So, against my better judgment … let’s eat.”
***
“I just love your matching outfits! That’s so cute,” says the waitress as she shows us to our table. “I wish I could convince my boyfriend to dress to match me!”
“Oh,” I stutter, “he’s not my – I mean we’re not –”
“We’re in a band,” he tells her. “Can only wear yellow. Kind of like the White Stripes, but … you know … yellow.” He winks at her. She giggles like a schoolgirl.
I am on a fake date with a guy I hate who is already flirting with the barely legal waitress. This is going to be a great evening indeed.
She sits us on the terrace, under the stars. It is a beautiful night, and had this been an actual date, it would be extremely romantic. But it isn’t. For the first half hour the only time either of us speak is when the waitress is around, to make her believe we are having a good time. It isn’t her fault, for all she knows we are the drummer and lead singer of Lemon Peel, out having dinner after a gig. We humor her.
After a painful and awkward silence she brings us our food, and Blaine attempts to create conversation. “So,” he says, his mouth full, “where’d you meet Frank?”
“Why does it matter?”
“It doesn’t, I just need something to talk about so I don’t kill myself from boredom. Where’d you meet?”
“The internet.” I take a quick sip of my drink in hopes of camouflaging my answer.
He rolls his eyes. “That doesn’t help. Where exactly did you meet? Sci-fi-smut chat room? Did he add you as a friend because you both like Iron and Wine? Did you get hooked up on some lame-ass dating website?”
I stare at my food. This wasn’t going to end well. “Wait,” I say, gesturing with my fork, “how did you know I like Iron and Wine?”
“Because everyone in their right mind likes – hold on. You’re changing the subject. And avoiding me. And blushing? Holy shit, it was a dating website wasn’t it?” He laughs and leans back in his chair, proud of himself.
I try to ignore him and enjoy my dinner. “What’s wrong with online dating? Tons of people do it now. Look at all those happy couples on the commercials. They’re normal people.”
“Ha! Right. No, those are the cream of the crop, the rare exceptions that are television worthy. What they don’t tell you is that the other 98% of users are ugly, socially inept, or just looking to get laid as many times as possible. And frankly, I’m not sure which category you belong in.”
My mouth gaped open like a fish. Now matter how you looked at it, that is an insult. “Excuse me? I have met plenty of decent guys on that website, thank you very much.”
“Keywords: plenty and decent. Plenty, as in you’ve gone through a lot of them, so obviously you weren’t satisfied, and decent, as in not great, not terrible, but mediocre. What’s a girl like you doing going through so many ‘decent’ guys?” He crosses his arms and stares at me until I answer.
I pause, not wanting to let him win. Oh, what the hell, this night can’t get any worse as it is. “Sometimes,” I tell him, “a girl likes to know that she’s not the lowest one on the dating totem pole. It’s nice to think someone believes you’re out of their league.”
He doesn’t respond, just stares unsettlingly until the waitress walks by. “Check please,” he tells her.
After taking care of the check we leave the restaurant. I turn to go home but only got a few steps before Blaine catches up to me.
“Frank’s a nice guy. He would have walked you home,” he states, in a monotone voice. Is he acting weirder than normal?
We walk the next block in silence. This is undoubtedly the most awkward date I had ever been on, including junior prom when I agreed to go with the kid next door who was on the chess team. What was going on? The Iron and Wine thing was still bothering me. I glance over at Blaine, my nemesis, to find him shaking his head in disbelief.
“What’s with the head shaking?” Now what?
“I can’t believe you.”
“For what?”
“This online dating shit,” he says, throwing his hands in the air. “It’s all a game to you.”
I stop dead in my tracks. He flirts with a 16-year-old waitress all night, and he has the audacity to accuse me of being the immoral one? “Excuse me? I think this is a game? Since when do you know – or care – what I think?”
“Since I was conned into buying you dinner, that’s when. What kind of date are you, anyway? You wouldn’t even laugh at my jokes.”
“They weren’t funny,” I reply through clenched teeth.
“Right. Let me guess, I wasn’t funny because I’m not your ‘type’. Because your ‘type’ is the slightly pathetic nice guy who doesn’t know any better. He’s beside himself that a woman would even agree to go out with him. Like Frank.”
“Hey, Frank and I really hit it off.” Even I didn’t feel convinced.
“Like hell you did. The only think Frank ever talks about are those old pulp fiction sci-fi books no self-respecting woman would every enjoy. They’re full of scantily clad alien women and endless details about imaginary technology. Even I can’t stand to listen to him talk about them, and I’m one of his best friends. No, the only reason you agreed to go out with him is because you think you’re better than he is. You just wanted to meet someone you could dump later and feel like you’re a great person because you aren’t quite that low on the food chain. Admit it.”
Now he was starting to piss me off. “You have no right to accuse me. You’re a dirty slime-bag that takes out a different girl every night. You’re a player.”
“That may be true. But they know it’s nothing serious. I’m not letting them think I like them just to feel better about myself.”
I slap him across the face. Don’t even think about it, just smack. My hand smarts, but it’s worth it. He slowly turns back to me with a pained look on his face. I stare back.
“You can do better, and you know it. Quit leading these guys on just for kicks. It’s pathetic.”
By now I am way too angry to have control over my emotions. The tears I try to blink back are blurring my vision. I dig my nails into my palms so I don’t punch the living daylights out of him. “Are you finished?” I finally ask.
“Yeah, I’m finished. Now get inside so can tell Frank I took you home like I promised.” He rubbed his jaw where I’d hit him. “You know I never break a promise.”
“Gladly,” I snarl, and go inside, slamming the door behind me. I watch out the window until he leaves, walking down the street with his arrogant swagger as if he hadn’t done anything wrong and he knows it. The sad thing is, I know it too.
