Date with the Knight

I’m out on a date.

wait. sigh, I feel the need to elaborate, to exonerate, that sentence.

I have no idea how to be with a girl. I mean, i think i’m a nice fucking guy and i’d listen and buy dinner and drinks and hold the door and all that other bullshit, but I honestly don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.

I’m used to, just hanging out. I’m a sucker for labels and labels usually come with expectations, or if you’re a reader, then Great Expectations.

Dating to me is driving up to her house, wiping my shoes, wiping my brow, should I have the flowers behind my back, in front of me. how much am i gonna spend? what if she has a dog and it doesn’t like me?

my friend: “remember when you broke up with that girl cause she’d always ask her cat, ‘what are you doing?’”

I’m hanging out with a girl and she’s, a knockout. beautiful. we go into a bar and everyone eyes us. usually the eyes tell me, who the fuck is this dude with that girl?

he must be rich, I’m not. he must have a big dick, I don’t. He must have dreams. well, faded, well, wet, well, I tend to daydream. And in my daydreams, I pretend.

I like to call it Make Playing.

so this girl, man, I’m fucking putty. (actually petty, but stick with me here)

I mean, you know I’m not normal when I’m dancing. I’ve danced maybe 7-8 times in my life. she was 7 and 8.

if you know me, you know dancing is a big thing.

my friends know me:

my friend: “wait, so you were dancing with her?”


my friend: “you were on the dance floor, dancing?”


my friend: “but you don’t dance.”

that’s right.

my friend: “so if I was there, at the bar, and you’re with this girl, you would dance in front of me?”

shit, I don’t know. I mean, I wouldn’t, but I mean, I have to, no? fuck, I don’t know, shit.

my friend lets out a long breath

my friend: “you understand I can never meet this girl, right…because…”

he never finished his sentence.