An Open Letter To The Bum I Went Out To Dinner With, Once

Thank God for the restaurant manager.

Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

Dearest Jamie,

You were a lot of fun to talk to. Man, oh man, the talks we used to have! First, over the website we met on, then emails, then 3-hour phone conversations. Things were going so well.

Then we met for dinner.

That’s when it all went to hell. I decided on good old Outback Steakhouse. It’s between my job and my apartment, so it made it uber convenient for me to get to and from via Metro. Well-lit, large parking lot, lots of people. The perfect place to meet someone for the first time. Plus, there was the bonus of all the security cameras thanks to the mall and Metro in case I turned up missing.*

We had a booth by the window. We ordered a ton of food since neither of us knew what we wanted. We sat everything in the middle and just tried whatever was laid out in front of us.

Well, you did anyway.

You talked with your mouth full. You never stopped talking. Or eating, for that matter. Naturally, once you were done eating and I was exhausted from bugging my eyes for an hour, it was time to head out. You insisted on making sure I got home okay. I insisted that no; you were not.