The first was a drunken blur (ending in great sex!), so we pledged sobriety to one another for the second. I was confident from our correspondence that we'd have a lot to talk about—he was funny in text. It had, of course, occurred to me that everyone is funny in text when you have time to formulate and edit your responses...
So, apprehensively, I ride my bike to Moto to meet him. He's already there and he's still cute even without my beer goggles on. We sit at a table facing each other and... I have nothing to say. Apparently he has nothing to say either because there's a lot of awkward silence. So we start drinking, and manage to stutter out some average conversation over dinner.
I'm relieved when our plates are taken away—partly because it means the date is almost over but mostly because I've been hanging out to eat the famous sticky date cake. When the waitress takes our dessert order, I chirp, "Sticky date cake please!" at her and turn to my date imploringly, "and you?"
I thought it was bad when I dated the racist, but it wasn't—not compared to this, anyway. He looks straight back at me, right into my eyes, and says, without flinching, "That's ok, I'll just share yours." I flinch but try my best to look like this is ok with me, but it most certainly is not. Not only have I been bored out of my mind, forcing stifled conversation with this guy, now I have to share the one thing that can turn my night around.
When the sticky date cake comes, it's impeccable. It tastes like heaven. But every time his fork comes down on it I cringe. I hate him. I want him to stop eating my sticky date cake. I wonder if I should stab him in the eyes with my fork so he can't see the sticky date cake any more and I can gobble it all at my leisure while he bleeds. I think I should stab him in the eyes anyway so he'll never have another opportunity to eat someone's dessert again. I think that would be a service to women everywhere.
Eating the sticky date cake is not as I'd pictured it. The delightful melt-in-your mouth texture and better-than-sex taste is there, but it's not the same. I have to eat quickly to get as much sticky date cake as I can. I don't want to eat quickly. I want to savor it. But I need to have more sticky date cake than him. It's imperative. Once the sticky date cake is gone I feel unfulfilled. I half jokingly say that I want another sticky date cake, although it's not a joke at all, I mean it. He says he's stuffed and couldn't possibly eat any more. Of course he's stuffed. BECAUSE HE ATE MY STICKY DATE CAKE.
We leave the restaurant in silence. I rue the day I ever met him. I rue the day God created man. All I want is my own fucking sticky date cake. I would prefer to have sticky date cake than an imbecile of a date. I would prefer to have sticky date cake more than anything else on earth. I vow from now on to date only men who are allergic to stickiness, dates and cakes. Or men who are not so daft as to assume that they are welcome to share my dessert. Or even better—men who are made entirely of sticky date cake.