“But you don’t want to tell me?”
“I don’t mind telling you.” I studied him for a moment, gathered a deep breath, and spoke the truth. “I’m looking for the right person.”
I’m looking for my perfect match.
Derek’s expression didn’t change, and he continued to gaze at me with a patient, watchful expression. But when I didn’t continue, he angled his head forward as though to say, go on.
“And?”
“And that’s it. I’m looking for the right person.”
“Ah, okay. And what traits will this right person have? Starting with the most important.”
What?
“I—”
“And if you could rank each attribute on a ten-point scale of importance—where ten is the most important—that would be very helpful.”
Now I openly frowned at him. “You want me to rank personality traits on a ten-point scale, starting with what I find most important?”
“Not just personality traits, physical attributes as well. Or, if you like, you can start with your love dialect.”
“My love dialect?”
“Correct. What form of affection is most meaningful to you, and so forth.”
We stared at each other. He continued to regard me placidly, with a friendly albeit detached smile. Meanwhile, I was plotting my escape, polite social discourse be damned.
Usually, I didn’t agree to meeting face to face unless I’d spoken to the potential date on the phone first, ensuring we had some level of chemistry. But I’d made an exception for Derek, because he was supposed to be my perfect match.
But clearly the system didn’t factor in the degree to which a person is a loon.
Says the sweating woman who had astronomical—and therefore understandably annihilated—hopes. Look in the mirror, looney bird.
I was just about to make an excuse when he announced, “We should engage in small talk. How was your day?”
“Pardon me?”
Nuts. He’s completely nuts.
“Or if you don’t wish to discuss your day, we could talk about hobbies,” he offered cordially, gesturing to my lap. “Do you read for work or pleasure?”
Distracted by his rapid and bizarre subject change, I responded unthinkingly, “I usually read for fun.” I’m sure the look I gave him was one of complete bewilderment.
“Really? Does kidnapping and sexual torture sound like fun to you?”
My mouth fell open and I reared back in my seat.
This guy wasn’t a loon, he was completely insane.
I managed to sputter, “What are you suggesting?”
“The 120 Days of Sodom.” He tilted his chin toward my lap.
I flinched, a short, aggrieved, disbelieving laugh bursting from my lips. “Oh my God.” Then to the table I said, “You’re completely crazy.”
Derek frowned at me, as though I’d confused him. His eyes bounced between the table and me. “What?”
“You’re completely crazy,” I repeated, reaching behind me for my coat.
“I’m crazy?”
If he hadn’t just suggested four months of sodomy I might have found the concerned wrinkle between his eyebrows adorable. But, given the fact that sexual torture wasn’t far from his mind, I decided the wrinkle wasn’t adorable. It was distressing.
“Yes. You’re nuts. Don’t email me. Don’t call me. Pretend we never met.”
I was no longer sweating as I pulled on my jacket and grabbed my things. This was an odd quirk about my personality: put me in an innocuous situation where I need to be normal, and I’m bouncing off the walls. But send me into a dangerous or emergency situation, and I’m cool and focused.
Derek—or whatever his name was—started to stand so I held out my hand.
“Don’t. Don’t stand up. Don’t even look at me. And don’t think about following me either or I’ll call the police.” Lunatic.
Without another glance, I wove through the tables and out the door, anger, indignation, and frustration spurring my movements.
Wow.
WOW.
Wow.
The first thing I’d do upon arriving home would be reporting that freak to FindUrPartner.com.
The second thing I’d do is delete my profile. I’d been with David, my ex, for six years, and because we’d met in college, I’d missed out on the early years of Internet dating. No great loss. Clearly it wasn’t for me.
I’d had some terrible first dates since breaking up with David, but this one took the cake. It took all the cakes. In less than twenty minutes, my perfect match had irrevocably propelled himself to the top of my worst-date list.
Thanks, dating algorithms, for pairing me with a psycho.
I moved to retrieve my cell from my purse. I needed to call my friend Sandra immediately. I couldn’t wait until knit night to tell someone about this fiasco. But then my attention snagged on the spine of my book—the book I’d purchased in a rush so as to not seem prosaic for Derek—and I stopped short, gaping at the title and author.
It read, The 120 Days of Sodom, by Marquis de Sade.
*End Sneak Peek*
Dating-ish is available on Kobo Now!