Reality Check
The sky anxiously glimmered and all beyond I could have witnessed was a sleek thin fog that made its way toward us. I led on to believe that I would not commit to Joe before the fog arrived. And so, with a pounding heart in my chest and tolerance limit in my head, I made my way back into the restaurant. There Joe sat waiting for me, his eyes frantic and worried. I settled into the uncomfortably cushioned chair Joe had already pulled out for me and gently offered him a makeshift smile. He knew it wasn’t genuine, I could tell from his eyes.
“You look lovely tonight,” He mentioned.
“Oh,” I answered, “Thank you.”
The check was to arrive soon and I didn’t have much time left. See, I have limits, for everything, really. Halitosis limit, tie-mismatching limit, rambling limit, etc. I couldn’t even understand why I would’ve wanted to commit to Joe. He seemed extremely sloppy, ridiculously ambitious, and wrongly yet constantly turned on. For me, he was fixing his tie. In reality, though, he was just covering up the stain behind it. Tea, I think. Joe’s socks didn’t match. I noticed this on my way back from the terrace. One was pure white, the other eggshell white. He obviously could not afford it, which would’ve explained the burger and flat bread menu.
Lola’s was the only restaurant we visited for the short time we saw each other. It was local, it reeked of barbeque, and we were the only couple there. The salad was their specialty. Couldn’t see why, though, each and every salad consisted of the exact same ingredients. At least Joe had the decency to choose differently our seating arrangements.
For some odd reason, Joe always believed that I was claustrophobic and never mistook me for being a smoker. He hated smokers. I smoked, though, two a day. I never told Joe. He looked at my bosom with admiration. I felt disgusted and burnt him alive in my head. The relationship had no excitement so as soon as the thin fog grazed past the restaurant’s window, I ended it.
“We should see other people,” I proclaimed abruptly.
“I agree,” he eagerly said.
“I’m glad we both feel the same way.”
“No harm in telling you now, but, I had an affair,” Joe blurted.
“Come again?”
“She has the same name as me. Joe.”
“Shocking,” I lied.
The check finally arrived and before Joe could lean in and ask to split the bill, I stormed out. The truth of the matter was my Louboutins didn’t match his L.L. Bean and his toupee didn’t match my pashmina. I left thinking it was brave of me and a loss for him.
I now lay awake at three a.m. with Joe’s invitation in my hand. It has been six months since our break-up and I open the envelope to read: Please join us in the celebratory marriage of Joe Hunter and Joe Curtis. In all honesty, I don’t know which is which. Guess I never asked or cared. This is one hell of a reality check so my verdict, new limit: the next guy I date mustn’t have mismatched socks.
“You look lovely tonight,” He mentioned.
“Oh,” I answered, “Thank you.”
The check was to arrive soon and I didn’t have much time left. See, I have limits, for everything, really. Halitosis limit, tie-mismatching limit, rambling limit, etc. I couldn’t even understand why I would’ve wanted to commit to Joe. He seemed extremely sloppy, ridiculously ambitious, and wrongly yet constantly turned on. For me, he was fixing his tie. In reality, though, he was just covering up the stain behind it. Tea, I think. Joe’s socks didn’t match. I noticed this on my way back from the terrace. One was pure white, the other eggshell white. He obviously could not afford it, which would’ve explained the burger and flat bread menu.
Lola’s was the only restaurant we visited for the short time we saw each other. It was local, it reeked of barbeque, and we were the only couple there. The salad was their specialty. Couldn’t see why, though, each and every salad consisted of the exact same ingredients. At least Joe had the decency to choose differently our seating arrangements.
For some odd reason, Joe always believed that I was claustrophobic and never mistook me for being a smoker. He hated smokers. I smoked, though, two a day. I never told Joe. He looked at my bosom with admiration. I felt disgusted and burnt him alive in my head. The relationship had no excitement so as soon as the thin fog grazed past the restaurant’s window, I ended it.
“We should see other people,” I proclaimed abruptly.
“I agree,” he eagerly said.
“I’m glad we both feel the same way.”
“No harm in telling you now, but, I had an affair,” Joe blurted.
“Come again?”
“She has the same name as me. Joe.”
“Shocking,” I lied.
The check finally arrived and before Joe could lean in and ask to split the bill, I stormed out. The truth of the matter was my Louboutins didn’t match his L.L. Bean and his toupee didn’t match my pashmina. I left thinking it was brave of me and a loss for him.
I now lay awake at three a.m. with Joe’s invitation in my hand. It has been six months since our break-up and I open the envelope to read: Please join us in the celebratory marriage of Joe Hunter and Joe Curtis. In all honesty, I don’t know which is which. Guess I never asked or cared. This is one hell of a reality check so my verdict, new limit: the next guy I date mustn’t have mismatched socks.
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