The Poetry Professor
Through an online site, I met a poetry professor with whom I had a great deal in common, and we had many great telephone conversations before we actually met in person. On the appointed evening, I met him at a Mexican restaurant for happy hour and found him already drunk on tequila shots. We sat at the bar on high stools and at some inappropriate moment, 20 minutes into the date, he decided to lurch/lean over to try to kiss me. He slipped, though, and accidentally pushed me off the stool, causing me to fall and hit my head really hard on the concrete floor, knocking me out. When I awoke, my skirt was up and there was a crowd of bar patrons hovering around me actually saying things like “Give her some air!” The bartender helped me up and told me to go wash the blood from my head and instructed me to get my date out of his bar ASAP. I asked my date to pay the tab (since it was mostly his shots) and told him the date was over.
I eventually made it out to the parking lot, intending to simply get in my car and leave, but was chased by the bartender, who wanted me to pay the bill, as my date had skipped out on it. So I paid, then walked to my car, and found my date lurking around, waiting for me and wanting to apologize. I refused to talk to him despite his repeated screams of “Don’t blame me! Blame the Prozac!” I got in my car and when I backed up, he threw himself spread-eagled on the hood of my car, sobbing uncontrollably while sliding off onto the pavement. That night he called me over 50 times and sent me at least half as many emails. The kicker? At some point he had for some unknown reason slipped his wristwatch in my coat pocket and really wanted it back. That was almost six years ago and I still have that watch as a reminder of the dangers of mixing emotional poets with tequila.
Editors note: This is an actual photo of the Bulova watch
