Nerves Never Lie

The last time I was on a date, my stomach churned so loudly, I had to excuse myself. Nerves never let me down. When I returned, the bussers were already clearing the table, and the waitress surged at me with those intense eyes that asked, “Who’s paying for this?” I paid. I always pay.

I’m the type of guy who falls in love on a first date. There was once a time when people believed in love at first sight, but now, it’s creepy. That’s fine. I’ve learned to scale it back. But it’s hard for me not to share my true thoughts. Most often, they come pouring out of me before I have the willpower to hold back my tongue. I used to think that was a good thing. Then again, I used to think that cargo shorts, a man bun, and natural deodorant were smart choices.

I’ve cleaned up. Trim, prim, maybe not proper, but not unkempt. I may not have job security (who does anymore?), but I have enough money to take a woman out to a nice dinner. Of course, I don’t start with dinner. Here in Seattle, there’s a ton of coffee shops, outdoor bars, collectible stores, and edible dispensaries. Depending on my date, we may go to the pop-culture museum, browse painted seashells, or peruse the streets on rented motorbikes with reckless abandon.

The problem comes when I get that sense. That, ‘This could be the one,’ dread. The ‘I’m head over heels, drooling over your next word, planning the rest of our lives together, and, oh yes, I’d love to split an appetizer,’ feeling. My gut rises slowly, a balloon drawn up to my heart. I’m not sure why, but when I lock eyes with a beautiful woman, the first shock to my system comes from my stomach. I like to think of it as irritable bowel of the heart.

I’m blessed by irritable bowel syndrome, but I don’t think the two are related, love and diarrhea. Maybe they are. Anyway, I’m allergic to dairy (no cheese has made life a letdown), gluten (celiac disease is a real thing), and cocoa powder. (I know, what’s the point?)

Ordering dinner with me isn’t typically the most fun task, so I let my date decide, then casually steer us away from anything with a milk or pasta base. If things go well, I ask for a second date, and let her choose where we go. Only after we’ve had time to get to know each other will I begin unravelling my many woes upon her. I don’t get very many second dates.

That’s why tonight is extremely important. My belly is already flipping like flapjacks.

We started off slow, which is fine. I’ve been told I can be aggressive with my chat, so I ask questions instead of word-vomit all about me. She answers after a while, and I make sure to always write back, showing interest, but keeping responses brief. Eventually, she speeds up.

PaulT225: So, how long have you been in Seattle? 7:18 PM

HoneyBea3: Too long. 8:53 PM

PaulT225: Totally. Where would you like to live? 8:57 PM

HoneyBea3: Paris, probably. Hey, how big’s your bulge? 1:41 AM

PaulT225: I’ve been told I’m fine. Above average, even 1:46 AM

HoneyBea3: We should meet up sometime. 1:47 AM

The first date was awkward. She wore one of those summer dresses that sort of flows and hugs you at the same time. I couldn’t stop admiring the curves of her body, but I think she kind of liked it. Didn’t get me far, though. I never read the signals right, and when I waited too long, she backed off. When I went in, she turned away. To be honest, I’m surprised she’s still willing to meet up with me a second time. Normally, a third meetup is when I'd make my move.

This time, she chooses the place. Dead Line, Latin American fare. She wants to dance. We order the Pork Belly Cauli, Chorizo Tacos, and Drunken Brussels. She wants to test me. My stomach will handle these meats and veggies just fine. She’s testing all of me. Her bum rubs up on my groin while we wait for cocktails. The music is salsa, and everyone stands up to dance, or sits down to take a drink and nibble on a taco. Or an ear. Her teeth are on my earlobe.

My lips fold in on each other, holding my tongue at bay. I clench my core, shimmy my legs, and wriggle my arms. She doesn’t much like my dancing. Our first round of drinks hit the bar, saving me from saying something stupid. Her smile is kind as she unwraps her straw.

With comfort settling and defenses unwinding, I ask, “Do you come here often?”

“Pioneer Square? Not really. It’s touristy. There’s heavy foot traffic nearby, but it’s quaint and hidden enough so I can enjoy myself whether I stay, or if I have to run.”

“Run?” The word slips out of my mouth a little too fast. I can feel it, she’s thinking of bolting out of her cushioned metal stool right now. Or, maybe she's joking. “How’s your drink?” I ask, before overthinking, then sip mine.

She's about to answer, until I spew the contents of my straw all over the bar. The crowd’s not too hot with my mess, nor is the staff. Certainly not my date.

“Sorry,” I say. “There’s dairy in this drink. I can taste it.”

“What’d you order?” shouts the bartender.

“Chicks Dig Scars,” I say, hoping that’s true, though HoneyBea3 hardly shrugged when I placed my order. “Bourbon and blanc, what a great combination. This is… milk and peanuts. Isn’t it?” Coconut milk, sugar, syrup, fruit and nuts, at least I don’t see any chocolate.

“You got the Great Minds Think Alike. I’ll fix your Bourbon Blanc on the house.”

HoneyBea3 lifts her glass and says, “To dying lazily on my couch in the middle of the day.”

“She got her order right,” says the bartender. “Death in the Afternoon.”

I stare at my date, full-figured, full of herself, and full of vibrant energy, starting to piece together the puzzle that will one day connect me with my fated greatness. I'm in need of a woman who I can lean on to help get me there. Someone in my corner no matter what. Or else, what’s the point? Who will care about my success someday if I don’t have someone to love?

Beatrice Graham is a girl who goes on dates with Paul Trunch. Maybe one day, there will be a Beatrice Trunch. Maybe, she’s the one. HoneyBea3.

We laugh over dinner. The top of her feet graze my legs, and I can’t help but admire her curves again. She likes when I look at her. Look, don’t touch. Don’t look too long.

“You know I still hold my town record for longest shot put throw?” I let that sit there.

“What’s the record?” asks HoneyBea3.

“Fifty-five feet. Well, technically fifty-four and a half, but everybody rounds up, right?”

Beatrice leans over the table all serious and asks, “What’s, like, an average throw?”

“Oh,” I say. “Like twenty-five or thirty feet. Used to double their throws back then.”

Still serious, she asks, “You think you can throw me?”

“I’ll get you a couple feet off the ground, as long as there’s somewhere soft for you to land.”

“I might hold you to that, Paul. Hey, how do you feel about dessert?” I nod, and reach for a menu from the bartender, but Beatrice blocks me. “My pick tonight, right?”

“I’m going to warn you right now. If you want me doing any sort of physical exertion, steer clear of chocolate, please.” She’s aware of my ailments, I’m aware of her intentions.

“Can I get the chocolate cake, you get the gelato, and we only split yours?”

Suddenly, the room is twisting. Tables start exploding, and a siren blares as the lights flicker. Everything in my peripherals devolves into utter chaos. Food spontaneously combusts in large clouds of exploding salads. The hostess waves as she floats away. The waitstaff turn into bears, but I don’t care. I see Beatrice Graham, HoneyBea3, the girl who may be the key to my destiny.

As the rafters collapse overhead, she slices into her chocolate cake. We split our gelato among the raging fire around us. She saves me the last scoop. A burning menu spots my face in soot and ash, Beatrice blots my chin with her napkin. She’ll always look out for me this way. She’ll always look at me like this. We’ll always be this happy together. My stomach settles, and at once I’m sure that the end of my old life starts here and now. A new world will rise up from the embers. Nerves never lie.