You spill ice cream down your front and he laughs and calls you a slob. That isn’t exactly the way you thought this date was going to play out. “What kind of guy doesn’t reach for a napkin?” you say.
“We are not responsible,” he says quite matter of factly.
Now what kind of person calls themself we?
Another bit of weirdness, you’re thinking, tabbing up five on his part. Plus his name which is ridiculous for a grown man: Ricky. Not Rick, or Richard, or even Dick (which you hate) but Ricky.
“We?” You grab a napkin off the counter before more ice cream can slop down the cone.
He’s watching like you aren’t here, as if you are a TV show.
“I’m live,” you say and lick the sides of the cone.
“I don’t like strawberry ice cream,” he says. “Reminds me of blood.”
“Oh yeah.” You lick with more ferocity. “You mean like period blood? Is that what’s bothering you, Ricky?”
You smirk at him over the cone.
He doesn’t answer.
“Ever fuck a girl during her period?”
“Shut up, Wilma!” He actually covers his ears.
“I’m live,” you say. “I’m live and I’m bleeding.”
love this. “He’s watching like you aren’t here, as if you are a TV show.” made me think of baudrillard and america as a simulacrum. there is more than one story here – rick and wilma and the being live (and bloody) in a relationship and perceived as such. i wonder what ricky’s answer would be.
Marcus, glad you likeee this one !
Bad dates make great stories, especially with an attitude like hers. :)
That last line — brutal. Love these two, their verbal violence. peace…
I like this take on the theme very much. The woman seems to be performing for the man who sees her as if on a screen. For each, it’s an engagement with the Other predicated on the simulacra. ‘Responsibility’ — who knows what happened to that.
The ultimate bad date.
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