Again: newspaper add – so I don’t
know what he looks like. He describes himself as tall, red haired with
glasses.
His first question is:
‘Do I look the way I described myself on the phone?’
Tall, red haired with
glasses? Yes.
But he forgot to mention
daft and smelling as if a rat died in his mouth.
He is interested in my
job and says that Luciano Pavarotti is his friend until it turns out that
they shook hands once when the Stinker asked him for an autograph after
a concert. The last woman he slept with was one who wanted to find out
if she could still score. His favourite composer is ‘Scheißkowsky’.
According to him it was the movie ‘The Sound of Music’ which
made the city of Salzburg world famous.
I don’t say a lot
because it is difficult to talk while holding my breath and moving my
head up and down to avoid his halitosis clouds.
He asks me whether I cook.
‘Not a lot.’
‘People who don’t
cook have low self-esteem.’
‘My therapist deals
with that.’ I smile.
‘You don’t
believe in that shit!’ He raises his eyebrows.‘Are you psychotic?’
Maybe I am. Otherwise
why am I still here?
He pulls me to his chest
to kiss me good-bye.
‘So do you want
me to call you, or are you going to call me?’
‘I call, I call,
I call,’ I pant dizzy from the lack of oxygen.
Terrified that bad breath
is contagious I spend thirty pounds on dental cleaning products. Then
I have Maltesers, sour strawberry worms, salt and vinegar crisps and peanut
butter and jelly sandwiches for dinner.
After a week I receive
a stern e-mail reminding me that I promised to call.
I mail back:
‘I’m terribly
sorry I was sure you noticed that we were worlds apart and were trying
to be polite when you asked me to call. – But please tell me what
kind of a man wants to date a psychotic with low-self esteem whose only
redeeming feature is that she knows how to pronounce the name Tschaikowsky?’
Ok, the last sentence
I didn’t send. But I wish I had.
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