I went to Dolly Parton a few weeks ago.
(It’s ok. You can laugh for a bit. I’ll just be here, drinking my coffee. Done now? Good)
I went with. Well, see, that’s the problem. Never mind his fucking name, he’s “Mr. I should know better.”
Dolly Parton. He asked if I was free. I offered to pay for my ticket. He declined. I bought dinner. He bought drinks. We laughed. We sang along with the music. It was. . .
Umm. It was a date. And he was the perfect date. I had a blast.
I’m in grad school. I don’t get out much these days. I’m slow as shit. I sleep with finance text books and scotch. I didn’t realize it was a date. I missed the part where he was flirting with me.
He’s lovely. Smart, funny kind, charming, nerdy, great car. Smile to knock me on my ass. Similar taste in music. Single.
He’s Mr. I should know better.
And there’s this terrible moment at the end. When I look at him as he’s dropping me off at my car. We’ve been laughing the whole drive and we get to the parking lot and the laughter stops . . . .
Why’d you come in here looking like that?