They've spent the better part of the week "talking" via "instant message service of the moment". He thinks her conversational style is weird; she doesn't write that much, or respond with any sense of urgency. Sometimes an entire sleep cycle passes and he'll wake up to a message. She makes him laugh though. Asks her out. She responds with the question: "Are you ready for this jelly?" Hahahahaha....smily face. He saw the pictures of her though, there's no jelly.
Things he knows about her: beautiful, moved from Northern Ontario three years ago, likes beer (the seeds of "maybe too much" were planted in his head at that moment), she's very active, and she has a dog named Stanley. He looks at her profile picture while he waits for her reply. He's tired but doesn't want to put the phone down. She's wandering around a casino with a drink in her hand and her blackberry on vibrate buried in the abyss of her purse. He's on his couch reading and glancing at his phone. Calm down man. Don't watch the pot. Seriously. Relax, the red light will flash. Plus, you'll hear the noise. If it's quiet, then she's not paying any attention to you right now. This is where he begins to wonder if she's really into him or not.
He figures, maybe too simplistically, that, if you're interested in the person, you're calling them back. Even if you have the urge to talk to her so bad that you have to put the phone on mute and ask her to tell you a story, partly so you can hear her voice, but also so she didn't figure out that you're sitting on the toilet. She'd never understand that sort of impulse. He's been trained to think that men and women approach this stuff differently.
They talk through the night. End up falling asleep beside their respective phones. Next day she says good morning and apologies for falling asleep. He say's no worries. Asks so when are we getting together. She says how about tomorrow? That's cool with him, besides, give him time to rent that movie he told her about. Downloading didn't work, too slow.
It's the first time he's walked to a girl's house with a video rental tucked under his arm since high school. Oh memory lane. Thinks it's cool that the first date is going down at her house. She casually responding: Where and when? and Your place or mine? Seemed pretty open-minded. Of course he suggests her place. Knows she lives alone. Well, her dog is there, but no other people. It's on a big street so he checks the address on the internet as he's getting ready. Enters her address, then enters his. Clicks "get directions" and waits a few seconds. Bam. Hey, she's so close. He smiles because he's averted the possibility of paying for a taxi. That's so cool, she's in my neighbourhood. Awesome. He leaves his house with a smile on his face. Thinks he'll stop and get a bottle of wine. Doesn't know what she prefers, but everybody likes red.
Walks, bottle of wine in hand, up the street to her's and makes a left turn. Heading toward the canal now. Slowly the apartment buildings and offices complexes give way to the brownstones of an Ottawa long gone. Back when the houses were built with care, good materials, a greater sense of craftsmanship. Ever seen a stained-glass window on a mobile home? By the address she gave, number "three", he figured she lived in one of those three storey jobs that had been divided into three single apartments. So common in this area. Rare nowadays to see a big house for a single family down here. Anyway. Past Cartier. Almost at Queen Elisabeth Drive. Third house from the corner. Apartment three. Takes a breath and rings the door bell.
Sounds of a dog barking leak through the door. Followed closely by footsteps down a steep stairwell and the smile of a beautiful women. Hi. It's her. She's holding Stanley. The dog. Go figure. He's a yapping little shit of a boston terrier, he's in fashion though, dressed in a sort of winter coat for dogs. She says he doesn't like the cold. Says he's soft like velvet. Pet him. He does. Agrees. Fucking dog is soft. She says come on up and he follows her. He takes the opportunity to check her out and he's happy because she's so fit. Loves a fit girl. Who doesn't, really? She wore black tights with a dress shirt and a scarf tied around her waist. She stands before him as he closes her door in a pair of thick wool socks pulled up to her knees. She looks cute as hell. In a messy way.
Tries to show that he hasn't already formed an opinion about her boobs. He totally has though. Are you kidding me? Poker face registers in a pasted on smile that he can't tare off. Looks into her eyes when she talks. Then at her cheek bones. Then at her hair. Then...then...
Nice place. Taupe walls. White moldings. She hangs his coat then they walk into the kitchen. She's already drinking wine. He'll just have what he's having. Puts the bottle he brought off to the side for now. Maybe they'll get to it later. Leans up against the counter while she's pouring wine and they make conversation. Good day today? Blah. Blah. Blah. Then he asks what she does for a living. I'm a cop, she says. Cool, he responds (maybe a little too eagerly, he might already be thinking about her handcuffs). Really, she asks. Yeah, he confirms. Because a lot of guys don't seem cool with that. They usually don't sound like they think it's cool, anyway. No, it is. In his mind, he's going, okay...good thing I didn't bring that joint with me. She's a cop, eh? Well, that explains the shape she's in. Fit. Fit. Fit. She smells like yoga for christ's sake.
They go into the living room. He looks at the all the precise decor. Glass table and four neatly arranged chairs. Perfect picture frames. Even a goddamn mantel. Place is beautiful. He tells her this twice in the first half hour. Feels stupid after the second time. She brings crackers and dip and they drink their wine and get to know each other. They're sitting on her love seat. The dog, for now, is sitting on the other couch. He's chewing a bone or something.
They turn the movie on and settle into the couch to watch it. He's thinking this is good because their elbows are touching. First contact. Cool. She's not huddled in the corner of the couch with her arms up, as if on guard. She turns around for her wine glass but then settles back down closer to him each time. Their hips are touching now. He puts his feet up on the table.
Bad move. Not because she doesn't like feet on the table, but because the dog then thinks it's his cue to sit on his out-stretched legs. It was not a cue. They were getting close. From where he sat the dog was just fine sitting on the other couch licking his balls or whatever. Not now though. Now the dog is sprawled out on his legs. But then begins to get up and relocate to a position that really isn't, between them. Hips move apart. Contact aborted.
She apologies and and says he just loves men. Especially her brother. Sorry. Sorry. He's being a little snot tonight. He hasn't seen my brother in a really long time. He's okay with it at first. Because the dog is cute and it hasn't forced her away from him completely. Elbows begin to rub together again after a few minutes. Then dog starts to move again. Back and forth, stepping on his crotch. Not the attention he was hoping for. Thing dog is a pain in the ass. Pain in the ass. Pain in the ass and a total cock-blocker. What did I do to you? Relax man, can't hit her dog. She'll throw you out. Plus she's a cop. So she'll kick your ass and then throw you out.
For the rest of the night it's follow the rules. Pretend to like the dog. Pretend to like the dog. Don't hit the fucking dog that's ruining everything right now. Leave the dog alone.
Note: no dogs were harmed during the date depicted. Seriously.
