Dating in Translation

About two weeks after I moved to England, I met C in a bar. Through text, it became clear that the most effort he was willing to expend on a date was a late night “meet me, I’m here.” I grew impatient and he finally offered a night of drinks.

When I arrived, he had already installed himself at a table and was burning through his second pint. I ordered a cider, but the conversation had me wishing I’d ordered something stouter, like straight scotch. It was all about him, him, and more him; a topic rather limited as he worked as a bartender to keep his time open “for the band.” Regaled with overblown tales of “gigs,” groupies and wild nights out, I thought it couldn’t get worse.

Then his friends arrived. They stood less than five feet away, and every time he drained a pint glass (about 7 minutes) he returned to the bar and they stood there, in perfect earshot, and dissected me. My ass, accent and the likelihood of me sleeping with him were all discussed as I sat awkwardly at the table, rattling the ice around in my empty glass.

I manufactured an excuse and left. Even more than a year later, he continues to invite me to his gigs via Facebook, and harasses me after 2 a.m., ranting on voicemail about how much he “wants what he can’t have.”