Date #11— John, A Little Lunchtime Something Something

One of the shortest dates of my life—45 minutes.  We met in one of those usually interminable lunch lines for Greek food in First Canadian Place.  I had a slew of meetings that afternoon, and was visibly impatient.  He was tall, well-suited and charming, and struck up a conversation about our current lunch line situation.  I agreed to meet him for after work cocktails the following day.  He suggested Canoe, and being one of my favorite places in the city, I quickly agreed.

Alas, from the moment I walked in to the fateful event 45 minutes later, I knew that this would be something of a bad date memory.  I ordered myself a glass of red wine at the bar.  He flagged the bartender, and said “Actually, get her a Sour Apple Martini.”  He turns to me and tells me “This is my secretary’s favourite drink, you’ll like it.”  But I don’t like Sour Apple Martinis, I do like red wine.  I don’t like chauvinistic assholes who order my drinks for me, despite the fact that I had already done so.

So our conversation progresses from there.  As it turns out he’s a broker.  Quel shocque.  I should have guessed from the perfectly tailored Zegna suits.  Actually, let’s be honest.  I like brokers, or any kind of type-A financial type.  I like the high-strung, pushy bordering on obnoxious personality type that a broker make.  I like the glam, the sense of entitlement and privilege, but sometimes it just goes a little too far, and John was one that really took it too far.  Although the date was headed squarely downhill from the start, we gained momentum when we started talking about restaurants.  One of my faves in the city is Crush.  His wife’s as well, I find out, although it’s often too difficult for them to get a sitter and dine out as often as they would like.  Wham!  Square across the face with that one.  There were no signs—no ring, no cell phone on the table, no previous comments.  “Oh, you have a wife,” I say.  He then describes her to me—the typical power wife with the perfect power kids.  Kind of like Annette Benning’s character in American Beauty.  And he loves her, in his strange way, he admits.  I become silent, trying desperately to figure out how my presence in this situation fits in.  I have been involved with married men before, but this seems different.  He doesn’t seem to be your typical wandering eye.

Turns out John has a proposition for me.  He’s not looking for any baggage, not looking for any involvement or commitment.  He’s looking for a little lunchtime something something.  A liquid lunch, and a quick spin in a nearby room.  I’m cute, I’m sexy, I’m outgoing, he says, so what do I think?  I’m floored is what I am.  Although hindsight being 20-20 and the proposition now may not be so absurd, in the heat of the moment I was livid.  I had my first (and so far only) drink slinging episode.  The last of my hated sour apple martini in the middle of his chest.  Without witty point, I left immediately in silence.  I had always thought I would say something really cutting, but I was just offended.

In retrospect, I wish I had said something.  Heck, maybe it wasn’t such a bad proposition, but then again, I only have an hour for lunch.  The less I can do to promote premature ejaculation, the better.