A Date with No Chemistry
My date with no chemistry started when a ‘friend’ (male) sent me a message on FB, a few weeks ago, telling me that he was quitting the platform. It took me a minute to figure out who he was; we hadn’t seen each other for close to two decades, after all.
Zooming in on the profile pic, I finally remembered. He was a lad from the year above me, and we’d half-dated in high school (AKA made out on the field at lunchtimes a handful of times.) He’d gotten cuter with age, it appeared. Not hot, but definitely a bit cute.
“I think I’m going over to 🦋 now,” he said. “Are you on it?”
I typed out yes, then realised, I couldn’t tell him that. I only have the one account there, and it’s this one. I didn’t want to ‘out’ myself just yet. “I don’t have it, I’m afraid,” I said instead.
“Here, have my number,” he said, sending his digits in a second message.
Wait a minute…
Was the man hitting on me? We weren’t exactly friends, so why would we need to exchange numbers? Maybe he wanted to be friends?
We exchanged numbers and chatted for a couple of days. Nothing deep. All surface-level stuff. No flirting. Well, virtually no flirting. There might have been some flirting. Maybe. I couldn’t work him out.
“Fancy pizza and a few drinks?” he asked.
“Like a date?” I replied.
“Yeah, if you want.”
If I want?! If I fucking want?! Siiiiiiiiiigh.
I thought about it. Did I want? He was cute, yeah… but the conversation wasn’t exactly all that. I said yes, mostly because I needed the distraction from the whole Sambuca breakup. And… you know… we might have sex.
I was fairly sure that he wouldn’t be a core-shaker. He didn’t have love-of-my-life potential, but maybe he had short summer fling potential. There was only one way to find out, right?
A date with no chemistry (if I wanted)
He ordered pizza, remembering my veggie order, and we ate and chatted as something played on the TV in the background. He opted for no booze, not wanting to drink if I wasn’t drinking. He did pull out a joint after the pizza, though.
“Do you smoke?”
“Yes, I do.”
He was so nice, a perfect gentleman. Friendly. Easy to talk to. Had his own hair, place, teeth, and car. Made me laugh a lot. It was a decent first date, and I had a lot of fun.
But I didn’t have chemistry.
The more we talked and ate pizza, the more I realised, he didn’t even have short summer fling potential. Not even a little bit.
I wanted to like him so damn bad. I really did. I tried hard to feel that way about him, if only for a one-night thing, but it just wasn’t there. Not when he touched my arm, not when he rested his hand on my leg, and definitely not when he kissed me on the cheek as I left.
I couldn’t even get it up, so to speak, for a booty call.
I sent the obligatory, “Thanks, but I don’t think we have the right chemistry,” text, the next day.
He replied, “No worries, thanks for a great night.”
Nonchalant as ever, eh? I still don’t have a clue if he was flirting with me or not.
Another non-successful date completed, I guess.
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