Tabatha Deans

Bringing Integrity to the Written Word

NO LOVE IN THE CITY
So I broke down and did it. A couple of weeks ago, in the throes of a pity party and a beer, I succumbed to the peer pressure and joined a dating website. (Remember, one beer here is like two beers in Utah, so alcohol played a little role in my decision to search the internet for friends.) I was very specific, at least I thought so, in my profile that I was trying to make friends, not necessarily establish a love connection. Blah, blah, blah,.
And now here I am, freshly showered and dressed in my favorite jeans, headed over to a little diner on Colfax called Tom’s, to meet a strange man and have dinner. Bad beer, bad beer!
Okay, survived the date, no stalker, murderer or psychopath. The meatloaf was good, but the waitress, Amy, was the best. She immediately set me at ease when I walked in and she started joking about my blind date having been waiting for two hours. Bob and I exchanged greetings, and Amy showed us to our table, where she continued to help lighten the mood by harassing us, and threatening to withhold her outstanding waitress/chef/financier abilities if we didn’t behave to her liking.
Bob was a perfect gentleman, and was easy to talk to. But it was obvious that we were both looking for different things in life. I realized how important it is to spend time with someone who will, and can, do what I want to do. Like hiking, wandering the city, long walks or even a jog. So, after we finished the meatloaf, Bob and I parted ways.
And the next day I ran into the hottest, sexiest, most breathtaking man I have ever seen. I walked up to the local pub, they have beers for a buck and will sell me one cigarette when I get desperate. They don’t open until two or three, it depends on when the bartender gets there. So today when I arrived the doors were locked and the perfect specimen of a man was sitting at the small table out front. His brown hair was cut in a bob, and hung straight and shiny around his ears, a strand landing over his chocolate brown eyes. I’m not sure what nationality he was, but he appeared tan and was carrying a nice leather satchel. Ooh lala. We made small talk about the bar not being open yet, and his voice was a beautiful as the rest of him. I was mesmerized for a moment, and told him that I was really here to get one cigarette. He offered me a cigarette. I offered him the 50 cents I usually pay the bartender, and he accepted it. Hmmm. That was odd. He didn’t strike me as the type that was desperate for fifty cents. He adjusted himself in his seat to deposit my two quarters in the pocket of his pants, and when he re-crossed his legs I noticed a rather large bracelet on his ankle.
The kind of bracelet they put on criminals, who are either under house arrest or probation. The kind that I was pretty sure should not be walking into a bar. I tried to rationalize that maybe it was some kind of white collar crime, or maybe he had been arrested protesting politics, or saving the bears or something. Then I just gave up. A man wearing a monitoring ankle bracelet could only be trouble. Period. I took my cigarette and walked back home, where I settled in with the best of Spin City that I scored at the library. Michael J. Fox. Now there’s a real man.

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August 2, 2011 - Posted by | Uncategorized

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