He Would Be Great If He Only Cared to Know Me

I add another point to my mental tally of unrequited questions. We are half an hour into this date, and I know he’s Greek, he’s lived in five countries while training to become a doctor, oh yeah, he’s a doctor, and he’s very chatty and confident. All of those things are great, laudable and interesting, and so I force myself to ignore the gnawing feeling growing in the pit of my stomach that reminds me he has yet to ask a single thing about me.

When he mentions that he has lived in the UK, I excitedly add that I have as well, curious to know how our experiences compare. This curiosity is not reciprocated, and he dismisses my interjection with a wave of his hand, not even commenting on it. Instead, he continues talking about his time there and even goes on to describe what British people are like. Thank God, how else would I have ever found out?

But I keep listening, nodding in understanding, commenting with emotive “ahhs” and “oohs” at appropriate moments. I contemplate how long I should give him the benefit of the doubt; maybe he’s just nervous and feels the need to impress me. The thought calms me. I cannot continue to write people off so quickly; otherwise, I’ll be an eternal single. It is enough to be 25 and to have never had a relationship.

The waitress comes over and asks us, “Is there anything else you need?” I inwardly sigh in relief, my ego finally got the attention it craved, but alas, it came from someone who gets paid for niceties. I gratefully smile at her, “Thank you, but we’re alright.”

“I love it, you are a cheap date!” Prince Charming let out a low chuckle, amused at his own joke. The waitress and I exchange a shocked glance. She pretends to look for other customers’ needs and leaves the pressing discomfort surrounding our table. I don’t know how to react, so I take a sip of my cappuccino and stare at the cute ceramic set. It has a pink beige ombré colour with golden specks peppered in between, and I think to myself, “This is the only thing coming home with me.”

After that ordeal, I shift from listener to active talker, no longer waiting for him to ask any questions. “I disagree that all British food is bad. Sure, it doesn’t compare to Greek cuisine, but I could murder a Sunday Roast right now,” my voice speaks a bit louder than intended, but it is the only way he can hear me over his talking.

He looks offended, and I'm unsure whether it is because of my interruption or the content of the comment. “No! Don’t say you like that!”

“Of course, I do! It’s varied with all the sides you get, and incredibly juicy. I always add extra gravy.”

“But it’s food for men!”

I see red. “Let’s not gender food, you ordered a chai latte with almond milk.”

He raises his hands in defence, and I have a sneaking suspicion he’s guilty of not being my type. It’s been 45 minutes, and I have made up my mind. I look at my watch and exclaim how late it is. I still need to do a couple of things at home before hitting the gym in the evening, and I raise my hand to signal “bill, please” to the waitress.

He looks hurt at my excuse, for it is painfully obvious I was trying to get out of this situation. Usually, I claim to have period cramps because men never question that, but I have done that so frequently lately, I am scared all my rejectees will meet up and uncover my secret. For a minute, I remember he is a person too, putting himself out there, trying to meet his person. It is daunting and frustrating. I weigh my options in my head, deciding between leaving it alone and explaining why I didn't enjoy it as much. You never know what reaction you will get, but I have been called “You are not that attractive anyway” and “yeah, I’m not interested either” numerous times, so I feel a sense of immunity.

I lean in closely to him and speak in a low voice, “Listen, I am going to be honest with you. I think you are interesting and confident, and it seems you have a great career. But, so do I. We have been sitting here for 45 minutes, and you have not asked me a single question. Whenever I mentioned something we had in common, you completely ignored it. Frankly, I did not really enjoy my time with you.”

Before he can respond, the waitress comes over with the bill, and I pay for my part. He pays the rest, and as soon as the waitress leaves, I grab my coat and bag. There is an awkward air around us, and we both slip out of the cafè in silence. Once outside, he lingers uncomfortably, shoving his hands into his jean pockets. I turn to him expectantly, waiting for him to say his peace.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters under his breath, turns on his heels and walks away without another glance back at me.

I brace myself for the usual wave of disappointment, anger, and frustration, mentally preparing myself for an evening of junk food and Taylor Swift. But it never comes. Instead, I feel a bit lonely, but otherwise, hopeful. This is the first time I addressed head-on what bothered me about a date, and the guy apologised. We were certainly never a match; I wouldn’t know what to do with him on Sundays. Chai Lattes seem more like a consoling mid-week thing, and what I was looking for is a weekend commitment. Yet, I have a feeling he might reconsider his manners for his next date, and for that, I am grateful.