30 years at the discotheque (Jaromir)

He’s from an eastern European country where, according to your father, “they don’t have a tradition of bathing.” You wonder about the truth of this statement; as he hugs you in greeting you are struck by his overwhelming body odor. You wonder if his shirt, a fitted polyester button down in a dizzying pattern of orange and brown paisley, has ever been washed; it carries the stench of 30 years of frenzied dancing at the discotheque.

You’re glad you agreed to meet at the bar so you didn’t have to spend time trapped in his car. You sit on the patio, down wind.

His English isn’t that great so you break the ice by asking about his family, his country, the town where he comes from, where he went to school and what he studied. You ask him about his job, his hobbies, movies he likes, music he likes, books he likes, food he likes, whether he follows any teams or plays any sports. Does he enjoy cooking? What is his favorite beer? Does he drink wine? Does he like to ski or would he rather be seaside? If he could choose any occupation other than his own, what would he like to do? If he joined the circus, would he be a lion tamer, ring leader, calliope player, or elephant trainer?

In two hours, he never asks you a single question about yourself. If he finishes the answer to his question, you just sit there in silence, awkwardly waiting for him to reciprocate some interest. He doesn’t, so you ask him what his dream car is, what is his favorite color, does he prefer a pencil or a pen?

It’s getting late and you’re bored and offended by his lack of social skills. Inadvertently, you yawn. “You think I’m boring don’t you?” he says, “I am a idiot and you dislike me.”
You shake your head and smile half heartedly. “I should kill myself I am so boring. I have no friends. No one will ever go on a second date with me.” You wish you could honestly disagree.