Anita Liberty's Datebook

My Friend's Boyfriend's Friend Thinks I'm Cute

So this guy wants to go on a date with me. And yes, I've met him. And no, I'm not attracted to him. But I'm trying to be open. He wants to meet at my apartment. Okay. He wants to talk before we go out to dinner. Okay. He wants to talk about the woman he just broke up with. Okay. (He sounds like a dick and I'm totally on her side and, in fact, am wishing I were having her evening right now. No matter what she's doing, she's doing it without him.) We go to dinner. While we're waiting for the maitre d' to get our table ready, I feel something unfamiliar on the back of my neck. It's a hand. It's his hand. His hand is on the back of my neck. Get it off. Get it off. Oh, God. Our table is ready. The hand is removed. After dinner (he ordered skate, I ordered soup, we split the bill 50-50, which means that I totally just paid for some of his skate), we go back to my apartment. His idea. (I'm trying to be open, remember?) I stand by the door and he sits on my couch. He wants to talk. Again? I mean, okay. I sit down on a chair to hear him talk. The next thing I know, he's no longer on the couch. Where is he? I've lost track of the little rascal. And then I feel it again. It's the hand.
And it's on the back of my neck again.
Get it off, I scream.

And he is gone. His hand, the money he saved on his skate and all.


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