I move over to Corb, laden with foodage. We're at our traditional booth at Panera's. It's a Sunday.
"Shhh, don't say another word," Corb says to me, the minute I sat down. "This is way too interesting."
"Shhhh! The two behind us. They're on a first date, and I don't think the boy's scoring any points."
I glance over.
"Stop it!" whispers Corb urgently. "They'll realize we're looking at them."
"Well, I didn't see much," I whisper back.
"I'll look for you. So, here's the deal. They're both probably freshman in college, tops. He's cute enough."
"Which kind of cute?"
"Yours. But he has terrible clothes sense."
"Does he have hairy legs?"
I grin. "That'll do."
"Yeah, but you'd hate how he's dressed. He's wearing...get this...a buttoned-up Oxford with those nylon whooshy gym shorts. And, he's weaing a pair of black sandals along with black socks, pulled up all the way. You know how much you hate the socks and sandals combination."
"Black socks especially." I sigh. "Why can't straight guys figure out what a horrible, horrible look that is?"
"You should see her body language," says Corb. "You can tell so much from that. She has her arms crossed, and she's turned away from him, as far as she can get. Oh, and if I were her, I'd be bored out of my mind,"
"The boy is dull beyond belief! He just spent the past fifteen minutes telling her about his summer at camp as a CTA and this one counselor who made an autistic kid cry. Then he tried to make himself sound all sweet and sensitive, and told her that he would have been more compassionate, if he had been the counselor. Oh, shhhh! Wait...he's just about to erupt again..."
Suddenly, the boy's voice booms through our area of the restaurant. It's masculine and husky, with all the makings of a used car salesman. "You know, you really are a beauty in the old fashioned way," he says, for all to hear. "Kind of like Marilyn Monroe. No, really! You totally are. Except, not like her. But that style. You know, you're a classic beauty."
"Oh my God," groans the girl. "You are such a player!"
"No, I'm not, really! A playa! No, I am not a playa, I swear."
"Are those sweat stains?" the girl says, suddenly mortified.
Okay, at the point, I can't help it, I have to take a look.
I see the boy, looking down at his shirt, which does have huge sweat stains under the pits. Instead of looking embarrassed, he just sits there with a stupid grin on his face. "Oh. Okay, okay, I can explain that. See, I was working out at the gym before I got here. Yeah, yeah, I know, not the best decision, I can accept that. But it's not like I didn't shower. Because I did, before I left the gym. So it's not like I stink or anything."
The girl rises from the table, shaking her non-Marilyn Monroe like blond hair. "I gotta go."
"Want a ride home?" the boy volunteers.
The girl smiles politely and walks out of the restaurant.
"No way!" I whisper. "She's ditching him."
We watch the rest of the act play out, in pantomime. The boy rises from the table, moves to her, standing on the sidewalk, motions to his car, parked nearby. She shakes her head again, takes out her cell phone. Starts dialing. The boy motions to his car one more time, practically pleading with her.
She won't even look at him by this point. Rejected, he starts to walk away. She stands outside the restaurant, playing with her cell phone. Doesn't even glance in his direction as he drives away.
I can't blame her. I think if I was on a blind date and the boy next to me had huge wet sweat stains under his pits, I wouldn't be that inclined to continue with the date, either. Let that be a lesson to you, guys: save the exercise for in the bedroom!
Ah, the heartbreak of young love. I'm happy we've reached the status of old married couple. Much less drama, that way.