Single again, and, for a moment, back on Tinder. As Chef Ramsey says, “Fuck me”.
She appeared attractive, we matched, and the few lines of bio were entertaining. We messaged a bit in the app, and flags appeared as some of the messages were more like outbursts. Unfiltered. Undeterred, we soon met. “I hate driving, can you pick me up?” Sure, I responded. Bollocks. Here we go.
I arrived at her apartment and she was navigating through the shambles. It was dominated by a king size bed, and boxes and clothes strewn everywhere. A broken couch was waiting to be rescued from the premises, and so was I. But, what was sure to be memorable, I could not break my gaze from the oncoming headlights of a trainwreck of a date. After she slugged the Lonestar she had in a death grip, we took off to get a drink and a bite to eat.
On the quick drive over, and once we arrived, she proceeded to disclose her life story. She was once a professional, made a lot of money, and came from money. She left that job behind, and pursued the life of a creative. She didn’t work for a long while, and, in her words, was not a good person. Drinking and drugs took their toll. She had it all, and basically had lost it all, burning all the bridges along the way. She had stopped drinking, she professed. As much.
She was entertaining, in a tragic fuck-I’m-glad-this-isn’t-me sort of way, and I could imagine the life she once had. Now, she was at the bottom, and climbing her way back up. Lucky me.
She went to the loo, and when she returned, mentioned that she had stopped at the bar and ordered herself another drink. (on my tab) At this point I was along for the ride. Where would this go – how bad of a reminder as to how ridiculous dating can be could this be?
She wanted to see my place. Okay. Why not. We went by mine. We weren’t there long. She wanted to get another drink at the bar down the street. I said I couldn’t – needed to get up early and take care of business. Somewhat true. It was time to take her home. On the way, she asked if we could stop by the store so she could pick up a bottle of wine. Sure. Why not. She grabbed said bottle, and went to her place. She invited me for a glass. Shit, why not, I’ve gone this far.
We went in, and since the couch was out of commission, we sat on her bed/pile of clothes. I noticed red wine was splattered on the wall where a headboard would be. Tunes were played via the computer. Chit chat. She said all she really wanted was to watch Netflix and have someone run their fingers through her hair. She started to cry. This struck me as so incredibly sad. Obviously! I empathized with her situation, even if it appeared to be self inflicted. To have had it all, even if completely shallow, and then to have lost it all. To be alone. This date – holy shit.
She asked me to run my fingers through her hair. I did. The alternative was to say no, and to leave. That seemed incredibly cruel. My wine was empty, and I did leave. She asked me to stay. No. Time to go.
She messaged me a few times in the next day or so. I didn’t respond, and unmatched. Way too much crazy going on there, and I did my due diligence to explore all avenues, some I never even imagined, on this first date.