**Technical glitch – sorry for the day delay on the post!!**

I completely forgot.  I was a totally different person when he met me.  Long, gorgeous brown locks, perfect part on the side and bangs.  Eye glasses to top off a sexy smart look.  This man was attracted to my post-breakup identity and was staring at a complete stranger for the last half hour.  I didn’t even scrunch my curly blonde hair so it resembled more of a Mufasa-type lion mane with a few bobby pins haphazardly thrown in.  Date over.  My Angelina Jolie hair he was expecting was fake and stuffed somewhere in my closet.  I nodded my head.

“I thought you were a brunette!” he laughed.  Burn.  The conversation continued to flow but it just wasn’t the same.  This time a week ago, I was flaunting some unknown identity to try and start fresh.  Hide from my hard conversation that left some man very hurt.  In the process, the Angelina identity was picked up by a new prospect and I couldn’t play that role today.  I didn’t know bangs and layered locks.

The mimosas helped my anxiety.  They were also making him more attractive.  There was something in his demeanor that was a bit of a turnoff – maybe it was an arrogance – but the bubbly was making his blue eyes pop.

The eyes were enough to hold on to him for a few more dates.  Our last date included a 12-pack of bud light and a frisbee in Central Park with a few friends.  Another one involved wine and tacos on my roof with my roommates.  I began to question him being my future husband that night on the roof when I headed downstairs to get another bottle of white for the group and came back up having gotten another guy’s number.  On my way back to the roof with the bottle of cold Pinot, my flip flop gave out going up the stairs and I crashed to the ground, the bottle shattering into a million pieces.  Luckily, the strapping blonde that I was eyeing on the roof sitting a stone’s throw from our table was heading down at that same time and ran to my rescue.  I was a buzzed damsel in distress with a bleeding hand from the glass and I needed his toned body’s help.  He quickly escorted me to his apartment conveniently located on the penthouse floor.  It was here, where he washed my hand, got a broom, and helped me sweep up the glass pieces.  I tossed him my digits before heading back to Trevor and I was in love.

Anyway, back to Trevor – the penthouse angel pulled a typical NYC frat-astic move and never followed up.  I wasn’t even going to mention him, but above all, I appreciated his help. There’s your shout-out, douchebag.

A week after the roof date, a virtually cost-free endeavor for Trevor, he had taken me to an Ethiopian restaurant near his place.  Would like to say he was doing well for himself, although we split the tab when I offered to help out, which brought him down to a C+.  His call tonight for sushi, however, was at my favorite place in the east village.  It was Tuesday and I was craving a dragon roll.

Game on.

As he walks toward me, he takes note of my Sapporo and the Crest smile broadens a bit, giving me a thumbs up.  Already impressed with my culture dipping.  We make our way to a table and I can’t help but have first date jitters all over again.  Trevor walked into this date with two strikes and at least a few fouls, but he was looking good.  And let’s face it – there’s not much else cooking on my stove at this point.

Well I’m glad I expressed my desire for dragon rolls early because “Asian expert” Blondie decides that I’m not allowed to even open the menu. I almost feel like this is some kind of sexual conquest, like handcuffing me to the bed and completely taking over.  Side note: I’ve never been handcuffed to a bed, let alone handcuffed by a cop, although I came close in college at an underage bar.  But I would be lying if I said I didn’t like this sushi dictatorship, just as long as more Sapporo was involved.  Over clinking bottles of beer and squints of disgust at some of the raw animals coming out on our plates, Trevor is slowly making his way back to a B.

Until the check came.

I’m in the middle of telling Trevor the best story that my grandpa ever spilled out to us about his firefighting days in Harlem.  Literally involving criminals, a hammer and my grandpa’s massive pick-up truck.  In the middle of the best part of the story – Pop-pop has a knife to his neck but uses his recently bought Home Depot hammer to his advantage – the waiter puts the check in front of Trevor and Blondie averts his eyes from mine.  He looks at the damage.  Literally opens the bill and assesses the numbers in front of him.  My speech gets slower as I stop my story and analyze his analyzing.  Seriously, dude?  My grandpa is about to die right now in this story and you’re busy calculating tip.  Grade is now failing, you have five minutes to redeem yourself.

He looks up.  Opens his mouth, this better be good.

“So it’s not bad,” he starts.  “About thirty total.  Thinking… like… fifteen each?”

Fail.  I don’t think I’ve ever given such a blank stare in my life.  It was so blank, in fact, that I forgot where I was for a second and actually smiled.  I let out the only word I could, hiding my anger, disbelief, and expressing complete confusion:

“Um.”

I look down at my bag to get money out and suddenly start cracking up.  I couldn’t help it.  Laughter erupted and got louder as I made eye contact with him.  His face was stone cold serious, which made my eyes expand by about 40%.  And then I realized I was being rude, apparently.  So I got myself together and turned serious.

“Alright I only have a card,” I let out.  “So let’s do this.”  My tone was feisty and sarcastic.  The waiter comes over to pick up our two cards, opens the bill and looks confused.  He looks directly at Trevor.

“Yeah, I can only put amounts under $50 on one card,” he admits.  Hi, are you single?  You’re not half-bad looking and I’m sitting with a real asshole.  I wait for Trevor to say something…chivalric… and nothing comes out.  I pick up the slack, apparently Trevor is not playing with a full deck.

“Trevor.  Why don’t you pick up the bill and I can pick up ice cream?”  There was a great ice cream place next to us called 16 Handles, which is literally a dream: 16 different flavors of ice cream with crazy toppings like Cinnamon Toast Crunch, and all frozen yogurt, so it’s fat free.  It’s basically like eating a salad.

Silence.

“Well” he starts.  “I just, uh… I just don’t know how big of an ice cream I’m gonna get.”

Yep, that sealed the deal.  What were you looking for, a few side cartons of fro yo that totaled to $30, you fat ass?  He broke the silence, almost embarrassed of what just came out of his mouth.

“You know what, I’ll just get it.  You can charge the MasterCard only.”  And with that, he turns to me:

“Don’t worry about it.”

What a good guy.  I smile at him and nod in the best expressed appreciation I could manage.  The same smile you give your boss when he piles a crapload of work on your desk and asks if you mind.  You don’t mind at all, and you give him a deadline that he can anticipate you having everything done by.

I gave Trevor a very hard squeeze that night when parting ways after dinner.  Not only did he fail the final, but his deadline was passed.