Destructive Third-Date Behavior

There are many theories about what constitutes destructive date behavior. If backers of all these theories were seated at the next table, ordering seven-course meals at the expense of the Third-Date Research Institute, they would agree my conduct throughout the rest of the meal constitutes honorable mention in their house of records.

Leon serves our freshly baked cheddar rolls. He introduces himself as though he is our butler or our favorite respected uncle. I sit up straighter because of Leon’s pleasant and proper manner. He makes me want to be a better dining woman.

Beau serves me the basket and watches my selection process with interest. I am no dummy. I know this devoted gift of observation will fade by date four, but I like it. “Basking in someone’s attention” now makes sense. My heart is actually warmed by this connection.

I add butter to the porous surface of my roll. A random light shaft from the crystal chandelier above catches my knife. The prism lasers my eye. All dangerous date behavior is triggered by some shift in the single woman’s brain. I still blame the prism-in-the-eye moment.

I start talking about my life. La, la, la, la, la.

It is normal to tell your date about your life. And if it is the third date with a guy you really, truly, admit-it-out loud like, it is practically a requirement.

It is not normal, however, to flood the conversation with references and detailed accounts of negative traits, behavior, and quirks. It can be confused with cute and humble…the first five stories. The Institute examiners would probably cut one off at three stories. Anything after that turns into destructive behavior.

I have passed story thirteen.

“Remember Randy? The guy who always wants to play four square or race down the hall in his wheelchair?”

“Yes…” Beau is still giving me all his attention, but a quick look of concern crosses his face as our meal arrives.

“I got so tired of him challenging me to those stupid corridor races that I started putting glue in his wheels. I said it was WD-40 so it could be a fair race and all, but it was glue. His arms fatigued by the first intersection, so I was in the clear to run ahead and, frankly, disappear…”

“More salad dressing?” Beau asks because apparently Leon tried a few minutes ago and I was lost in conversation…with myself.

“Oh, sure. Thanks.” I watch him carefully pour the Italian dressing from the silver server and I continue with the story. “So here I am hurrying down the hall to get out of his sight, and then I hear a huge crash. Collision. Like steel hitting steel.”

Beau raises his eyebrows with an appropriate look of shock. He is practicing Polite Third-Date Behavior.

“Yes. You got it. That huge, triple-tiered drinking fountain with the hand rails…he hit it hard.” But before Beau can think too badly of me, I temper the horror. “Oh, at an angle, not head-on…because I had accidentally used more glue in the right wheel. He veered. Thank goodness.”

“Yes, thank goodness.” Beau motions to Leon.

I reach for my glass of lemon water because suddenly I am exhausted and dehydrated. When did the meal get here? As I gulp my beverage, fielding lemon seeds with my tongue, the shine from my lapis bracelet reminds me that I removed my WWOMD since it didn’t exactly match my outfit. If I ever needed that, it is now.

Feeling the prechills of self-loathing, I realize I have been going through my “reasons you could reject me and get out now” repertoire for nearly forty-five minutes. Beau’s meal is almost finished.

Now I recall him praying before starting in on the risotto and eggplant. I didn’t pay attention to our prayer. I should have been memorizing it, but I was planning a witty way to share the story of tying my pastor’s shoes together while he was praying at my baptism when I was eight.

I recall Beau feeding me some risotto a few times. It was very good, with a slight nutty taste and the tang of capers.

I feel sweaty, clammy. I have lost track of time and my senses.

Completely.

It is so obvious that Beau is not motioning for Leon to request the dessert menu. He is trying to get the check before I can start one more looney-bin story.

How can I salvage this? One “just kidding” does not override twenty-four tales of disturbed living.

Leon shows up and looks at my face carefully. Has he been listening? Or is it the beads of sweat resting on the crease between my eyebrows that causes the look of concern?

“Yes, sir?” He turns his deep brown eyes toward Beau’s hazel ones. They need few words.

Beau gestures for Leon to lean in toward him. Beau whispers. Leon whispers back. Beau says, “Perfect. I cannot thank you enough.” And Leon disappears quickly.

Well, it is obvious to me that Leon has left to gather reinforcements. Beau has asked that I be removed from the premises. They may not have a cover charge at Divine’s, but I bet they have bouncers for this and other occasions: An older, rich man is seen with an underage woman. Two business partners break up over tiramisu. A married couple exceeds the espresso limit and starts a fight about the tube of toothpaste. There are many unfortunate reasons for bouncer services even at upscale restaurants.

It does not escape me that Beau has fed me carb-loaded food during my diatribes to slow me down before I can beat Leon and his Leons to the stained-glass doors. I push back my chair, just waiting for Beau to bring this disaster to a close or for Leon and gang to gag me and tie my hands behind my back with linen napkins.

Before I can stand, Leon is back.

The only reinforcement he has brought with him is a silver bucket holding a bottle of chilled champagne. A very expensive bottle of champagne.

“What?” Are we not experiencing the same date here?

“I know you don’t drink a lot, but I thought we should toast this special moment.”

“A toast to what?” Toasting a breakup is not polite dating behavior, I’ll have you know.

“You have told me of your every wrongdoing, indiscretion, bad decision, inclination toward evil, and moment of weakness…”

“Well, not all.” Like, I altered your personnel file, for instance.

Beau holds his hand up, his first protest all evening. “And I am more infatuated, interested, intrigued, and captivated by you than before.”

“Charles Manson had quite a following,” I say quietly as I sheepishly raise my flute to meet his at the epicenter of this self-made disaster.

“To Mari. The woman who is not capable of ruining this third date. No matter how hard she tries.” He smiles and I turn the color of the merlot the imaginary Institute committee is drinking.

Then Beau raises his glass even higher, motions for me to do the same, and leans forward to kiss me. Right there…in the eye of the storm. And just like meteorologists are always telling us, there is a surprising peace.

After our short but memorable first kiss, he takes a sip of champagne and clears his throat.

“So…those things…they don’t bother you?” I want to know how he could figure me out so easily. “Didn’t any of those stories—”

“Scare me? Just the one about encouraging your cousin to jump from the top of the barn to test the shocks on his new tennis shoes.”

“He never grew as tall as his brothers. Did I mention that?”

“Yes.” He waves it away as though my violent tendencies are a fly at a picnic. To be expected. “Now a proposal…”

That I delete his phone number from my cell directory?

“We leave.”

Here it comes.

“To quickly put an end to date three…choose a new restaurant for dessert…and officially start our fourth date.”

I love that word “our.”