April Fool's Day

This is a work of fiction inspired by actual events in my life. Names have been changed, but I'm still me.

(Love Interest: 1)
I suppose it all began—customarily enough—with a beautiful woman, and wanting to offer her the bare minimum required of a worthy boyfriend.

Amanda and I met at a bar. I was unaccustomed to meeting sweet and receptive women at such a place. She was unaccustomed to spending time in such a place whatsoever. I drew the latter conclusion after I caught her twice looking at me, pleasantly enough, and I introduced myself, confidently enough. We talked. On-stage 30 feet away, a raw yet rollicking band covered hard-rock standards. They employed a saxophone wired with pedal-effects in lieu of an electric guitar, which was a novel yet ultimately unsatisfying touch, I thought, but I didn't tell Amanda that because, hey, in due time and with all due respect, I was going to try to get laid.

During a reprieve from the racket, I let her know that although it's pointless to attempt coherent chats once the music begins to blare, I'd be happy to resume our talk after the next song. And this actually worked. Four local musicians did a raw yet rollicking and novel yet unsatisfying rendition of “The Ocean” by Led Zeppelin, and when I turned around, Amanda was still there and I really was happy to resume our talk.

We agreed that it's usually much more fun to watch others embarrass themselves on the dance-floor and comment on it than partake in such nonsense when one is not in the mood. I got bought her a rum and soda mixer and then I got her number. When she replied to my initial text two days later, I felt like a had no regrets.

A week later, we met for drinks amidst the omnipresent green and racket of St. Patrick's Day. Beneath that racket, as I inched closer to her in gradual increments, she offered that she lived on the outskirts of town, a brief commute from the college in which she pursued her masters in Nursing, mainly because her preferred option—located across the street from the campus—lacked a carbon monoxide detector.

I thought, That was the deal-breaker? Really? I've always rolled the dice on detecting carbon monoxide and I'm still breathing. Jeez—LIVE a little.

But I said, “Well, you can never be too cautious.”

When asked about which TV shows and movies she liked, she eventually relayed that she can't stand humor that is edgy, obscene, or satirical, that she is put-off and not at all entertained by shows like The Simpsons and South Park.

I thought, Sometime in the post-tonight future, I will have to show this woman the Homer tattoo on my arm , reassure her that it is both real and permanent, try to keep her sufficiently attracted to me,  and--oh, I don't know, just keep my fingers crossed.

But I said, “You probably hate that show Family Guy, right? Yeah. Me too.”

In spite of these demerits, I was still attracted to Amanda, the subtlety of her eye-popping curves, the mastery of shampoo and conditioner that she squeezed into her chestnut locks, her sweetness and unflagging willingness to study hard so that she could provide sick and injured patients with the best care possible.

She let me know ahead of time that she intended to be home before midnight, but I coaxed her to stay until 12:01. I walked Amanda to her car. When we hugged goodbye, she turned her face away from me. I obligingly refrained from forcing my tongue into her ear canal.

I thought, I must move out of my parent's house quickly in case the topic of my living situation is brought up the next time I see this woman.

I said, “Do you want to have lunch together next Saturday? Well, how about the Saturday after next? Cool. I'll see you then.”

You know what? This one has been revised so many times. You're better off getting the eBook More Stories, and Additional Stories. Why in the fuck would I be shitting you about this?

It's rhetorical. See... I'm smart that way.