Havana Nights?

Twenty minutes into the second date she looks at me and deadpans, “What’s wrong with you?  You were so bouncy and fun last time.  Now, you’re all serious.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.  I didn’t realize your less than 24 hours of knowing me qualified you to speak to me in that tone, and with such authority.”

I didn’t really say that.  Naturally, I apologized to her in an effort to avoid conflict.  I should’ve avoided a bad evening and asked for the check.  At this point, the more astute among you may be wondering how I found myself on a second date with this woman.  The first date ended with us making out on the dance floor at The Ritz in Midtown.  The Cuban bottle blonde had moves.  Caliente.  However, sans the beats of Gaga our chemistry was somewhere between cardboard and a mosquito bite.

I called an audible and suggested we go see Inception thinking at least my evening wouldn’t be entirely wasted.  While walking to the theater, she continued to badger me about what was wrong, repeatedly saying, “as long as it’s not me.”  “No, really, what’s wrong?  I’m a Scorpio; I can sense these things.”  Dating foul #2: Never mention your astrological sign in any meaningful sense unless you’ve already signed a pre-nuptial.

I made up some excuse about over-thinking a conversation I’d just had with my mother.  It should be noted that the conversation in question had absolutely nothing to do with any dispute between my mother and me.  This is why I was flabbergasted, and I don’t use that word lightly, when her solution was to not speak to my mother again.  I protested that I didn’t think this was the appropriate response, in a non-Norman Bates sort of way.  She swore that not speaking to her mom on any kind of a regular basis was the smartest behavior change she’d ever made.  Yes, well, good luck with that.

Inception was sold out so we saw Cyrus instead.  She was super handsy—even did the yawn, arm over my shoulder bit. I bit my straw.

We had planned to go dancing, but my arthritis was flaring up.  I asked what she would rather do instead. You might be wondering why I just didn’t beg off and go home.  I get worse.  I have issues with disappointing people, even people I don’t like.  Oh, like you’re so perfect.  I digress.

She says, “My honest answer?  [no, give me your Buck Rogers in the 21^st Century answer] I want to make out in a park with you.”

“Uh, okay, um.  [looks down at feet] Which park?”

“How about this one?”  [motions to Union Square]

We walk into Union Square searching for a spot when a genuine realization hits me.

“I’m not a city dater!  I feel awkward about this.  It’s not the gay thing; it’s the PDA thing.  There are too many people here.”

“Oh, no one is looking.  Besides, it’s my dream to make out in a park with you.”

I really wish this was fiction, folks.

We take a lap around and I’m secretly praying for no open benches, when she settles on one sufficiently far from a sleeping homeless person.  We sit and I grimace uncomfortably as scads of people walk past.  I feel a thousand eyes and two CCTV cameras boring holes into me.  Even the corgis are in on the debacle.

“I really can’t do this.  I’m just not comfortable,” I mutter after a salty, unpleasant smooch.

Undeterred she repeatedly tried to put her hand up my shirt calling me a “classic, voluptuous beauty.”  Flattering.  Painful.  We Pisceans have different dreams than getting mauled by bisexuals in Union Square.

“You travel so much that we just don’t have time to take it slow.”

We parted company soon thereafter.  I was extremely polite.