THE DATE

BY FIRESTORM Chris and I had been internet dating for nearly a year. It felt like much longer and no time at all. We had the best talks. I could talk to her like I'd never been able to talk to a woman before. We had so much more in common than I had ever had with another woman. Yet every time I tried to arrange an in person, face-to-face get together, she'd put me off. “Oh, this weekend isn't good for me. My brother's getting married.” “Not this weekend, it's my great-grand-mother's funeral.” And so on. “I'm starting to think that you are not as serious about this relationship as I am,” I finally typed in exasperation. “Oh, it's not that,” she replied at once. 'it's jut that I'm not sure you would like me as well if you met me face to face. I'm not exactly beautiful.” “I don't care what you look like,” I shot back at once. “I know your soul.” “Then why does an in-person meeting matter to you so much?” “Because there's only so far an online relationship can go and I want ours to go further.” There was a very long pause. “All right,” she finally said. “This Friday, at The Grill on 35th, at 8”00P.M. I'll be in the back corner booth. Don't go too crazy when you see my face.” I assured her that I wouldn't and spent the rest of the week in extreme anticipation. Finally, the glorious evening arrived, and I shaved more thuroughly than ever, took the longest and hottest shower in history, and then dressed up in the best suit I owned, having cleaned and pressed everything, even my socks and underwear, earlier in the day. I arrived at the grill five minutes early and saw a man sitting in our booth. “It's still five minutes,” I said to myself. “He'll clear out when she approaches and explains.” But fifteen minutes later, he still sat there, and no women had approached the table or even come through the door. Finally, I march over angrily and clear my throat loudly, causing him to look right at me and, very strangely in my opinion, smile. “Excuse me, Sir,” I say. “But I am supposed to be meeting someone at this exact table, she is already late, and I would appreciate it if you would move.” His smile almost reaches his ears. “Why are you smiling like that?” I demand. He stands and extends a hand. “John?” he asks ,continuing to smile. “John Sprinklsparks?” “Yes,” I say shortly. “How do you know my name? And why re you smiling so?” “Because,” he says, still beaming. “You're even handsomer than I'd hoped. I'm Chris, Christopher Lens.” “I'm looking for Christina Lens,” I almost scream. His smile fades a little, but not nearly enough for what I am currently feeling. “In any of our conversations on your account, John The Stud, on Meet Your Mate, did I ever actually say that my name was Christina, or was it always just Chris?” I think hard, desperate to make what seems to be unfolding not so, but can find no such relief. “It was always Chris,” I slowly admit. “I filled in the rest because that was what I anted it to be. So you're queer?” “I prefer the term 'gay', but yes, I am into other men, not women. I apologize for not being totally forthcoming, but I was just checking that sight out when I tumbled on you, and we got on so well that I couldn't stop. That was the reason I didn't want a face to face meeting, because I knew the good thing we had going would end when you saw my face. Shall we at least have a decent meal like two decent gentlemen before we leave this place and never speak again, or maybe you kill me.” This suggestion brings me up short. Yes, I am angry about all of this, but I am not a murderer. “I won't kill you, I promise,” I say. “I am angry, furious, yes, but I'm not a killer. Since we're here, we might as well have our meal. Beyond that, we'll see. I'm not into guys that way, but maybe we could be friends.” He gives a smile and a laugh of unexpected delight, and then we call for menus.