Expiration Dating (8 page)

Chapter
Twelve

             
“Ow, jeeez!” I cried as Emilia yanked my hair.

             
“Toughen up!” she said. Emilia had taken it upon herself to beautify my face for the date that evening. I planned to meet Giuseppe at his home, and I figured we’d go out from there. I told Emilia we would be meeting at a coffee shop; otherwise, she’d never let me go to a stranger’s home. Like most of my other friends, she’d say I was oblivious to dangerous situations. I preferred to call myself an optimist.

She sprayed the last round of hairspray, eyed me up and down, and declared me good to go.
I ran to the metro, already a bit late, and arrived at his door fifteen minutes later. Emilia insisted I wear high heels, though I hadn’t been sure that was a good idea. I was already tall, and my memory from the night we met was slightly foggy. I couldn’t remember his height, and I didn’t like towering over my dates as a rule. Regardless, Emilia wouldn’t let me leave until I had heels securely pinching my feet. Anything less wasn’t considered
proper
date-wear.

I knocked, and the door opened.

             
There was a pause as Giuseppe looked up.

             
“I remember you being…” he searched for an English word. “…smaller.”

“
Um,” I said. I knew Italians were blunt, but jeez. He began gesturing, and I tried to understand. It was like a high stakes game of Pictionary.

             
“I believe the word you’re looking for is
shorter
,” I said finally. I kicked my shoes off, stepping into the carpeted hallway, and he smiled in relief, realizing he was taller than me by a quarter inch when I stood barefoot.

He invited me into his one-
room, undecorated bachelor pad. I noticed a fold out bed in the middle of the room and a tiny, uncluttered kitchen. This place was so bland. There was not a single picture on the wall, no color in sight except for the black bed sheets.

We made small talk as he offered me a drink. I accepted a glass of water, and we perched precariously on the edge of the bed. With my limited Italian and his limited English, our conversation halted after we figured out how many brothers and sister
s we each had, what our favorite colors were, and what we liked to eat. There was an awkward silence, and he suggested we watch a movie.

             
“Si,” I said. “What other option do we have?”

I spoke the last part quickly.
He looked at me with a blank stare. I shook my head, never mind.

             
Of course the film he picked had no English subtitles, and it had one of those extraordinarily complicated plots; the type of movie you have to watch closely in your native language in order for it to make sense. I had no hope of understanding a single plot point, and I could only look on confused as he laughed at the antics on screen.

He tried to explain once or twice, but explaining in Italian really wasn’t going to help me.
However, I also couldn’t tell him that in Italian
because I didn’t know how.
I nodded and smiled, not wanting him to feel bad. In all actuality, I was daydreaming of other things. I wondered if Andrew was going out tonight. I thought he’d get a kick out of my Italian date, and I wanted to share the story with him. He knew I was after the Italians, so he’d mock me for this failed experience, but I’d show him in the end. 

I smiled at the thought, and Giuseppe mistook it
as a green light for him. He leaned over and started kissing me. I found myself kissing him back, if for no other reason than to pass the time. He was a terrible kisser, too rough for my taste, but it could’ve been worse. We made out for ten minutes or so, and by then I was starting to get tired, not to mention bored to tears.

             
“Basta, enough,” I told him. He grinned and tried to kiss my neck. I halfheartedly pushed him away. “Seriously.”

He paused for a second, then
leaned me backwards. I let my elbows bend, collapsing onto the bed. His hands were grasping at parts I didn’t want touched. I stood up.

             
“I have to go,” I said in Italian.

             
“Where?” he asked, seeming to be genuinely confused.

             
I let my hands fall to my sides, fingers clenched. He had really asked me over just to mess around. He’d never had plans of going out for dinner, grabbing a drink, or anything other than laying on his shitty bed, watching a movie I couldn’t understand and feeling me up. I felt nauseated; I didn’t even know his last name. I left without saying another word. He had the guts to yell out after me something about a second date.

             
“Date?” I yelled back, “That’s what you call this?”

I
stalked back towards the subway, not even acknowledging the whistles as my dress swished around my knees. I hopped on the metro, and at the last minute decided to head in the direction opposite my home. I responded belatedly to Andrew’s texts, asking him to meet me for a drink. A few seconds later he named a place I knew, and I changed my course.

I arrived before him and snatched a table.
He’d said to meet at a cute little place called Bar Victoria. It had pink walls and looked like it belonged in the fifteenth century. It probably had existed then, I mused looking around at the walls. The place was frilly and innocent, and just what I wanted at the moment.

Andrew
arrived, and as soon as he walked in the door I knew something was not quite right. He didn’t look like his usual composed self; he was slightly harried, bumping into someone as he walked through the door and barely acknowledging their annoyed expression. This was not the polished, precise Andrew I knew. He sat down, said hi, and looked at the menu. We were silent until the waiter came.

We both ordered strong drinks, him
a Negroni, a potent mixture of gin and about six other alcohol types, and me a, vodka based concoction. It appeared on the waiter’s tray, minutes later, looking like there was a jungle growing out of the glass.

             
“What’s up?” I asked after a few seconds of silent sipping.

             
He hesitated, as if unsure whether or not to tell the truth. “I just Skyped with Anna.”              “Ok,” I said. He stared at me, as if hoping the weight of that statement would sink in.

             
“Should I know her?” I asked.

             
“The girl I dated right before I left for Italy,” he said, as if I was slow.

             
“Sorrrr-eeyyy,” I said, not actually sorry. How should I know her name? He didn’t react with a smart comment, and I realized he was truly upset. “I really am sorry.”

I reached over and touched his hand.

              “It’s okay,” he said. “I just hadn’t talked to her since I’ve been here, and I didn’t realize how much I missed her.”

I nodded, my eyes fixed on my drink
. It looked like I wouldn’t be sharing my story. But I was Andrew’s friend, and I was determined to cheer him up.

             
“Look, Andrew that really sucks. I know that’s a shitty situation,” I said. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

             
After a few moments and another drink order, he continued, “It’s just, we knew it was coming all along. I met her when I was working at school. She’s a year older, and graduates at the end of this semester. It was never going to last past that. Not to mention I was going to Italy in January.”

             
“Sorry for interrupting,” I interrupted, again not sorry at all. “Why did you guys even start dating?”

             
Andrew looked at me, trying to gauge whether I was serious. After determining it was a legitimate question, he said, “We liked each other, it was fun. We knew it would end, but why wouldn’t we enjoy it while it lasted?”

             
“Because then you have to say good-bye, and then this… THIS happens.” I said, flailing my arms at the table. “Why would you bring that upon yourself?”

             
“How many boyfriends have you had?” he asked.

             
“One,” I conceded. “We lasted over two years, when I was in high school. The break up was horrible, and I even knew that he wasn’t for me. I didn’t always admit it, but in my heart I knew it.”

“
That’s why I never dated afterwards. Why would I want to do that to myself? It’s better to just go on a few dates and not let things get serious. That way you have your fun, you still date, and there’s no hard feelings.”

             
“But why, in the meantime, wouldn’t you want to date somebody?” he asked.

             
“Because then you have to break up with them and feelings get hurt!” I felt like I was beating a dead horse.

             
“But if they’re not right for you, then it doesn’t matter,” he said. “You date each other until someone better comes along, and then you move on.”
              I didn’t realize how loud my voice had become, “That’s terrible! How would you ever get married? Oh, sorry, honey,” I mimicked, “someone better has come along. Time to say goodbye!”

             
“It’s not like that,” he said, fidgeting. He pushed his empty cup around the table. “I’m talking about in college. You hang out with someone, you’re friends, you start hooking up, and then it just turns into dating. When the situation changes, you move on.”

             
“So – you’re saying you want a long term fuck buddy?” I asked.

             
“Basically,” he said, leaning forward. I could tell he didn’t mean it and was just responding to my tone, but I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

We sat in more silence as we contemplated our first fight.
It seemed like gaping rut between us. I was surprisingly upset; I had even forgotten about my reason for calling the meeting in the first place.

             
“Look, I’m sorry,” I said. “It sounds like she meant a lot to you.”

             
He nodded, accepting my apology. “I guess I just believe it’s better to have loved and lost than never loved at all. It just sucks when it ends.”

             
“How many people have you dated?” I asked.

             
He thought back, “One long term in high school, but she turned out to be crazy. And then I guess I’ve dated people every three to six months or so since freshmen year of college. They’ve never really lasted longer than that.”

             
I was floored. Our backgrounds were polar opposites. I couldn’t imagine having that many exes.

             
“She sent me mail the other day.” He pulled a letter out of his pocket. “She loves horses.”

H
e showed me all the stickers and drawings.

             
“Mmm,” I said, a weird sensation forming in the pit of my stomach. I was pestering him about his ex, but I wasn’t sure I wanted physical proof she existed. “What was she like?”

             
“She was…” he laughed, clearly remembering something I couldn’t see. “Passionate. We usually couldn’t make it home from parties, if you know what I mean.”

             
“Is that right?”

             
He smirked, “Yep, once we did it in a tree while our friends walked by. Talk about suspense. Or there was another time we did it in the back of a semi that was abandoned at the moment. We only realized later that it was lit up for the world to see.”

He looked tempo
rarily happy, but I felt guilty; I just couldn’t reciprocate his happiness. I chalked it up to the fact that when I looked back at my ex, I remembered a few happy times, pranks we played, but no real emotions. It was more like remembering a fond movie than anything else. I yearned for the feelings Andrew was expressing. He seemed to sense my unease and came out of his thoughts.

             
“Sorry, we don’t have to talk about her anymore,” he said. He looked me in the eye, “Thank you for listening, though.”

I nodded and
laid money on the table to cover the drinks. The shiny money didn’t even make me stop to admire it today.

             
“I should get going, anyways,” I said. He stood as well, and walked me out to the curb.

             
“Do you want to come over?” he asked.

I couldn’t do it
. Andrew was clearly hurting, and anything he acted on now would be a rebound. Not that I wanted anything to happen, but still.

             
“Sorry,” I said. “Not tonight.” I hugged him quickly, and hunched into my jacket, shuffling towards the metro without looking back. I could sense him watching me hoof it down the stairs, but he didn’t follow me.

             
Emilia was waiting up for me when I returned. “How was the date?”