Page 106 of My So-Called Perfect Life
Speed-dating is creepy to me. No judgment on those who have found someone through it, but all I picture are the scenes in movies that always make it seem so horrific. At least the bar we’re at seems nice. There’s a sign directing us to the back of the bar. There’s a room closed off for the event.
“Oh, stop.” She rolls her eyes. “This is the perfect way to see what’s out there without having to go on dozens of pointless dates. It’s not like you’re actually trying to find a man here. And if you do . . . well then you do.”
Point Mercy. I’m definitely not trying to find a potential date here. “How’d you find out about this?” I ask as we join the people waiting in line to check in.
“One of the secretaries in the office was talking about it in the teachers’ room the other day, so I looked it up.”
When we finish checking in, we’re handed a booklet. The first page lays out how the night is supposed to go. We sit at the table with the number matching our assignment, and each round lasts seven minutes. When the bell sounds, the gentlemen rotate tables clockwise.
Seems fairly simple.
The back of the booklet has pages with places to take notes on the guys as they rotate through on the dates. A rating page per se. I don’t know how I feel about the idea of being rated by these men as if I were just a piece of livestock up for auction.
We enter the room and find bar tables set up all around it. I find my table, number nineteen, in the corner while Mercy’s is across the way. I set my bag down, and Mercy digs inside it, pulling out my phone.
She wraps an arm around me and pulls me close to her. “Smile,” she orders as she holds the phone up and waits to take a selfie.
I smile, and she takes the picture. Then, her thumbs go flying across the screen.
“What are you doing?”
“Just posting some pics on Snapchat.” Her eyes twinkle with mirth as she hitches a shoulder. “And Instagram.”
On the screen is our picture followed by:Speed-dating. This should be interesting.
Anger fills my chest. “Why would you post that? What if Ryan sees it?”
Her face falls, and her frustration shows. “Who cares? This is what he told you to do. So, it can be your proof when you get back together or revenge if you meet your future husband. Either way, it’s a win for you.”
“What is this, high school?” I ask. “That sounds so petty.”
Mercy plants her hand on her hip. “Bitch. Please. Don’t act like you didn’t check out all his accounts.”
I cross my arms indignantly. “He doesn’t have social media. Except a Facebook that hasn’t been updated in about seven years.”
She clucks her tongue. “You haven’t checked out the bar’s?”
There’s no way I’m going to admit that to her right now.
“That’s what I thought.” She gloats
I need a drink.
A server comes around and I order a glass of pinot.
“Attention,” one of the hosts calls out. “Will all the ladies please report to your tables?”
Mercy heads toward hers, and I take a seat at mine. The booklet we received at the check-in table has a bunch of “get to know you” questions in the back.
It makes me think about all the times playing This or That with Ryan.
Shake it off, Danielle. Focusing on that will only make this night more miserable.
My wine arrives just as the men start to file into the room. It’s an eclectic group of men, I’ll tell you that. A wide array of different men scatter, taking seats at tables. Some are in suits. A few are in workout clothes as if they were heading to the gym. I see one man who looks like a hipster and one who looks like he belongs in a rock band. And a guy in the cat T-shirt looks like he is heading straight for my table.
God, please no.I can already tell that me and this guy will not have anything in common.
“Hi,” he greets me as he pulls back the other chair. “I’m Steven.”
