Date #3: Three-Date Rule
I'm recently from California, land of the three-strikes rule. The fact that I'm from this planet means I live in the land of the three-date rule. For men, it's the sex date. For me it's the do-I-want-to-go-on-a-fourth-date date.
Indentured Cats and I met at a Mexican place near my house for dinner.
He ordered a margarita on the rocks; I had my usual chardonnay. He brought me some CDs he had burned -- a strike against him, since I'm a former songwriter who frowns upon unpaid residuals -- some band from the '80s and David Gray, whom I think is some Felicity-soundtrack type. He showed me pictures of the now-famous cats. We talked about Seinfeld and laughed about the "George Does the Opposite" and "Bookman" episodes. I had the green enchiladas and he had the red. They were really good.
Afterwards, we walked across the street to a European wine bar where he had champagne and I had peppermint tea. He created another strike against himself when he talked about his divorce. He admitted his complete surprise that the hauntingly beautiful twenty-somethings who work at the coffee shop he frequents didn't pursue him once he stopped wearing his wedding ring. He thought the gold band was all that what was standing in the way of him and unbridled ecstasy, and did not consider that they may just have been politely doing their jobs.
He told a long story of a disappointing trip he and his then-wife took to Tuscany and I watched my teabag slowly turn in the white ceramic cup.
When it was time to go, his big yellow taxi pulled up. Although I live two blocks from the wine bar, he did not offer to give me a ride home.
The techno music and cosmopolitan feel of the wine bar reminded me of L.A. and made me lonely for the people I used to know there.
L.A. reminded me that Indentured Cats has probably had his third strike with me.
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