It was twistedly romantic. It was spontaneous. It was magical. It was our first date, Valentine’s Day. It was a fateful decision.

We met at his condo in downtown Baltimore as to take one car. The limo was a nice touch, I will admit, though a little superfluous for a first date. None the less I felt flattered he would go to such a length. I don’t remember much about the conversation on the way to dinner but I do remember being smitten with his complicated cantations, higher education, and the fact that he was studying medical law. My first eyebrow raise being postponed until he mentioned how loaded his parents were, one of many times. I wrote his sticky conversation skills up to being nervous and brushed away the awkwardness. After all he was tall, handsome, fit and educated. A wonder to be single. Curious.

Dinner started sweetly with him ordering a particular dessert wine with the main course. Curious, I wondered if it was some new foodie fad. No, he said, it was because the name was “Sweet Roseanna’s Red,” and that was his ex-girlfriend’s name. His ex-girlfriend, who he was still very much in love with, or obsessed with, I haven’t been able to decide. How did I know this? He told me. At length. She left him. She was cruel and sweet. She had hair like deep red silk, or so I was informed. When not reciting how perfect she had been, he spent many long, quiet, awkward moments staring deep into his wineglass murmuring “Sweet Roseanna.” Deep.

Once he had his fill of reminiscing he felt the need to ask me about my sexual history, saying he liked a girl who was comfortable in her own skin and experienced (in the way of men) and preferably women. Now, I’m a good actress, but I’m sure some of my discomfort bled through. I was assured I had nothing to be shy about, that I was very much his type, and that he’d love to see me model for him or possibly “act” in one of his upcoming movies. Apparently he was into “local” movie making. Charming. Unfortunately, it was too late to impress me. He’d taken care of most of the vino, although I could have used a Martini or four, myself.

He spilled his whole life story promptly after ordering more wine, noticing my lack of guzzling. This covered the fact that he had three kids by three different women, but had only married one of them. However, they had obviously since divorced, but remained great friends and worked together. That marriage ended because of a drug habit he almost had control of. And his drinking, no license, which I suppose explains the limo. Romantic.

Speaking of limo, we got back into the overpriced taxi. The plan of action is to meet with a couple of his friends at a local watering hole for some good conversation. After more delightful little stories, and my inability to slide three words in, he raves about how much his parents are going to love me and he can’t wait to take me out of town to meet them. Reaching? Slightly.

In the bar, at the table, I’m feeling a little better. His friends seem a little odd, but funny no less. After excusing himself for the third time and stretching his absence to well over 30 minutes he returns as I presumed, drunker then when he left. On his heels? A waitress, though not ours. Leaving them discussing drinks I excuse myself to the restroom, make a phone call and make it back to the table in no more than 15 minutes only to find the waitress still sitting with my date, in my seat. The fact, among others, that I have to ask her to move so I can sit back down should have set off my thus far silenced bells and whistles. She walks over to the bar and gets a stool and plops it down 15 feet from our table.

Next thing, my date drags the stool over saying she is lighting up our conversation. I get through the ordering of the drinks, and she had only leaned over his shoulder and ran her hands through his hair twice. By the time the drinks had arrived, the table had been advertised, at least twice, that if I ever wanted to get rid of him, I just had to call her. Of course this was said with a laugh, which my date thought was so cute. Adorable.

Breaking point? No. I’m very patient. Please don’t misunderstand, had I had my own means of getting home this pleasantly sickening evening, or an address to where my car was, or a cell phone with a live battery I would have fled the scene more than once.

Small details to wrap up the night; he maxed his credit at dinner, so I had to cover for us, as well as his two friends, as well as the drink he insisted on buying for the waitress.

We must escort his friends home because they are clearly too drunk to drive, and how convenient that the waitress had just ended her shift. We all pile into the limo and head to his buddy’s apartment, in the same downtown as my date’s abode.

Relived to be in familiar-ish territory the partiers stumble into a small apartment. I break a heel catching my competition as she catches my sloshed date. In the apartment the men excuse themselves. I hear the shower go on in the bathroom. Eventually emerging wet and clean Captain Socially Inept says he’s sorry he took so long but figured since he was near the shower, he might as well freshen up. He is smart enough to notice the look on my face and proceeds, with a tad bit of attitude, to ask me at what part of the evening did I choose to stop enjoying myself?

I slink past him to the bathroom and emerge a moment later to an empty loft. Patiently I sit, assuming everyone went outside for a cigarette, only to realize when I peak outside the limo had left. Well at least I was rid of him. I was only stranded in downtown Baltimore at 2 a.m. No biggie. So I scoop my shoes up, and borrow some energy bars from the counter and face the night full of proverbial jumpers and shankers to hang my head back to my car. Hopefully.

Sneaking past people sleeping on benches, it’s dark and I’m scared. I hear a shadow, “you shouldn’t be out here all alone like you are.”

An old man with a cart approaches me at the intersection I’m preparing to dash across. “Are those Cliff Bars?” I hand the man my confiscated snacks with shaking hands. “Please don’t worry, it should be a happy day” he says and he pulls his other hand out of crinkly paper in his cart. He hands me a long stem red rose. “I’m always prepared to be kind”. I thank him with a shaky hiccup in my voice and he tells me to walk with my head high. It’s warm for a February night, and even with the buildings the stars are out. I smile, thank him, and scuttle back to my car.

Getting in.I lock the door. A very deep breath lets some adrenaline out of my system. Relief.

I suppose after all, it’s freaking Valentine’s day. Though after all of the drama, I got the warm fuzzies I was hoping for, even be it in a twisted, spontaneous, magical, fateful way.

By: Samantha Ondrusek

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