We’d meet at that Indian place on 31st and Lex for dinner at 8PM sharp. I’d get there and he’d have a table. HE would be funny and attractive, but not as funny and attractive as me. HE would work in business, some office, and makes a lot of money. It isn’t important that I understand his job, but it is important that he is happy doing it. And impressed that I’m a writer. (Support is sexy, as is envy).
We’d order: me, Chicken Massala and him, some mango dish I want to try. This way I can have my favoraite without feeling guilty about not trying new things. We’d each get an order of nan. (I hate sharing nan). Conversation would come easily and I wouldn’t feel pressure to talk all the time, thanks to the louder-than-necessary Indian music in the cave-like restaurant. The room would be lit with candles and low-lights so everyone looks a little mysterious and HE will look more attractive than usual, but not attractive enough to make me nervous about eating my entire dish and half of his. The food is the most important thing about this date, I need to focus on that.
Second to the food is the drink. At dinner we’ll get two bottles of wine, one red and one white. HE won’t think ill of me if I drink the entire bottle of white by myself, and he’ll think it’s cute when I’m a little drunk after dinner. He’d have polished off the red, but not feel a thing. (I like a man with a high tolerance).
Then we’d be off to a little Mexican restaurant, with cheesey colored bulbs and sponge washed walls, for margarittas and mohitos. He’d be an excellent dancer and I’d be twirled around the room, knocking into unsuspecting tables and patrons. He’d dip me and I’d throw my head back because I know he’s got me and I won’t land on the puddled, wooden floor by accident. Nobody would speak english, and its a good thing I’m drunk so I can communicate. (I learned Spanish from a bottle of tequila freshman year).
Around 1AM, we’d head down to Sing Sing Kareoke and get a room with a big screen and book full of songs and we’d sing off-key to showtunes and old Madonna songs. (Hey, in my fantasy straight men can do this too!) Then when I’ve lost my voice and he’s maxed out his credit card, we’ll take a cab to my apartment and he’ll kiss my head and my hand goodnight, after carrying me to my door, because I’m too drunk to walk. (At least I bring things back to reality in the end).
Then I’d stumble into my bed, naked, and have a delicious sleep of approximately twelve hours. In the morning (or afternoon), I’d wake up, enjoy my alcohol/Indian food shit, clean my apartment in my underwear, go to Pilates and recieve a big boquet of flowers from HIM that night. He’d be gone — off somewhere on some trip — and I’d go back to the Mexican place to pick up the bar tender I was eyeing the night before.
