The Sound and the First-Date Fury

 An at-a-glance observation of one first date in the City of Brotherly Love.

Flushed red and flashing a nervous smile, he approached his date with an overeager, high-pitched greeting before she had time to even take in her surroundings. Instantly realizing the awkwardness of the first encounter, he whipped out his wallet to spot her cup of coffee as a sort of first-date reboot attempt, appearing to have temporarily breathed life back into the already endangered first-time gathering.

Standing by the shop’s counter and ordering her coffee with him gasping uncomfortably heavy breaths just behind her, he handed the barista a wad of one-dollar-bills and tossed an extra George Washington in a duct-tape-labeled “tip cup” so as to – as can be said almost for certain – impress his new debutante by demonstrating not just his chivalry on first dates, but his super-savvy skills as a coffee customer.

Five minutes later, the two had settled into a table by the window – a wise choice for anyone looking for extra opportunities to make conversation – and began the to-be-expected first date conversation fodder. Talks of hometowns, how they like their neighborhoods, and what their jobs are like ensued for a solid five-to-ten minutes before getting into the real nitty-gritty of the meeting.

To be sure, the guy was a more experienced dater than his black sundress-donning, wavy-haired, hot mess female companion, having clearly mastered the “interview process” of coffee dates and the appropriate tones for asking personal questions. His voice fluctuated almost poetically, as if he intended to mesmerize her not with what was coming out of his mouth, but how it was coming out. He rarely offered-up information about himself willingly, but when he did, it was noteworthy and prompted a response. A bigger pro than his initial nervousness would have implied.

The girl, meanwhile, did a wonderful job of flaunting her strong points – namely her face, hair, and chest. As she moved through conversation, she waved her hands artfully as if conducting an orchestra, before pulling them back behind her head yawn-style, simultaneously perking up her breasts to eye level with her date. As she finished her sentences, her hands brushed through her hair in slow motion, which indicated either a nervous tick or an impressive, conscious attempt to allow herself to be perceived as enchanting or – possibly – sexy.

Sadly, her language skills and overall substance were not nearly as eloquent or endearing as her date’s. Every other word involved the word “like,” and her counter-response questions were lightweight and less enthusiastic than her body language would otherwise have her date believe. It wasn't entirely unlike watching Sarah Palin in a debate. She touched vaguely on what could be viewed as endless topics of family and post-college life, insecurely leaving conversation topics just when they were supposed to get interesting.

This continued for thirty minutes or so, which in the moment might translate to an hour or more depending on how much (or if) either of them actually enjoyed the date. Not much of topical significance had occurred in the meantime, minus a strangely brief and seemingly blasee mention of sadism and masochism that left more than a little something to be desired.

And then, at last signaling his disinterest, he tossed out the “It was nice meeting you” line that effectively draws the line in the sand. The two barely spent ten seconds walking away from the table and scurrying out of the shop, going their separate ways and effectively re-instating their status as strangers evermore.

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