My gals and I find a seat and watch a group of cute gents play mini-golf outside.
“Hey, look. A few of them waved at us,” my friend notices.
“What? No, they didn’t” I reply. Minutes later, the four wavers come over to our looking post AKA our table.
“Mind if we join you?” A tall blonde asks. My friend giggles with a, “Sure!” They sit down and each guy picks a chica as if we were in a 1990’s rom-com. My guy, a small blonde who’s name I’ve now forgotten, starts quizzing me on music. “You like pop?”
“I prefer alt-rock music now. Some screamo, too,” I respond flatly.
I didn’t get that he was trying to get to know me and took his questions as data collection.
Blondie nods, not expecting my lack of flirtation. “Like Rise Against?” No. “Ah, well, more like Rage Against the Machine.” Wrong again. This poor guy. I really had no idea what I was doing.
The crew decides to walk on the promenade. “You live around here?” he continues to pry as we stroll.
“Yep.” Although I thought he was cute, I was oblivious to his obvious interest. My flirting skills? A negative 12.
“How about we get some dessert?” he blurts out.
“Awesome!” That caught my attention.
He wraps his arm around my back. Aw! He wants to be friends! I think. We all head to an ice cream parlor and share ice cream with our “dates.” I, of course, devour the ice cream, keeping it all to myself.
“Can I have a taste?” Blondie asks. I guess. If I have to share. I give him my ice cream, expecting him to use a new spoon. Nope. He takes my spoon and eats the rest up, returning my cup with only two bites worth of ice cream.
“Yum.” He licks his lips and waits for me to finish the ice cream. Caving into the pressure, I finish the last two bites with the dreaded spoon.
We all walk around some more – talking and chatting – and my guys arm is still around my back. He holds me close to him. A friend of Blondie’s then mentions their apartment isn’t too far from where we are. “We have a hot tub at our place if you want to check it out.”
“Oh, I don’t have a bathing suit.” I say.
We all pile into my friend’s car, girls on guys laps. I wrap myself around Blonde, thinking that if we die I want him as my air bag. We arrive in front of their apartment and decide to call it a night. No hot tub for us.
“It was fun hanging with you, maybe we can see each other again.” Blondie says.
He looks at me and leans in for a hug. I think. I give him a hug anyway and hop back in the car.
“What were you thinking?!” one of my friends hisses at me. “He was totally into you and you did nothing!”
“You are the worst date, ever,” another friend insists.
“Date?” I look back at the poor guy. His friends are patting him on the back with pitty. “That was a date?” Indeed, it was, and I missed the whole thing.
I never heard from Blondie. Then again, I never gave him my number. Because I have no game whatsoever.