Blind Date

by Kathryn Higgins

Thursday November 29, 2007

Parked the car
and ran in —
not quite on time
for my tenth blind date
in ten weeks.

Want a drink?
he asked
as he eyed the cake in the case.
Tea please I said to the man at the bar.
Cup of Joe, he said
and a slice of that there.

He was tall with long legs
and the chairs were slung low,
so he spread his legs wide, leaned in
and hunched his head down.
As we talked he scooped the cake
from the plate to his mouth
as fast as he could.

’Scuse the hat he said.
The bill of his sports cap
faced back — greased curls hung out.
Like a home boy.
Ugh, I thought.

I have to wear it, he said.
I’m bald; just got new plugs.
They took a swatch of scalp from the back
and stuck it on top.
Want to see?

No thanks, I said.

He wiped crumbs from his lips; smeared some in his beard.

Guess what? he said.
I just saw the doc.
I took all the tests.
They all came back good.
I’m free and clear.

That’s good I guess, I said.

Want to have sex? he asked.
No thanks, I said.

I went home and blocked him.