Anyway, she walked in and we instantly recognized each other. One thing led to another and we found ourselves at the darkest dive bar in town, where we flirted through a few rounds of beers and ended up making out in her car.
We seemed to have a lot in common. We talked about all the cute shit that everybody pretends to be interested in within the initial week of getting to know someone: Wes Anderson movies, road trips, coffee, people-watching, that stupid game where you make up backstories for people at restaurants.
The very first hint that something was... not quite right... came about during a walk in the local game reserve. (If you haven’t gone on a date in a game reserve, I highly recommend it. Awkward moments can be easily dispelled by pointing up at a tree and going, “Aw man, what a stunning tree.”)
We were about a mile into the walk when she recalled a story that had happened to her the previous summer. It went like this:
“Have you gone tubing on the river yet?” she asked.
“Dude, you have to do it, it’s amazing."
“Ugh, though I went last year and the whole thing was ruined by these assholes on the other side of the bank.”
“Yeah, these black guys started talking to me -- and I had had, like, seven beers at this point -- and they asked me to use my tube or something.”
“Yeah, so I called them a bunch of porch monkeys and they got so mad!"