Blind Date

Cold and Hot

"So, how is everything?" my date said.

Mike Russell had dark brown hair that was cut to a short taper, baby blue eyes, and a charming smile.  He was definitely a handsome guy, I'll give him that, though he wouldn't likely win People magazine's "Sexiest Man Alive" award anytime soon.

"Great, and you?" I said.

"Fine," he said, "but I meant the food.  How's the food?"

"Oh, sorry," I said.  "It's decent.  Not fancy, not lower class.  Somewhere in between, I guess."  I poked around at the food on my plate.  "Is yours cold?  Mine's a little cold."

"Is it supposed to be cold?"

"It's spaghetti."

"Oh...yeah," Mike said, now fumbling for a decent recovery.   "Some pastas are meant to be eaten cold, though...like macaroni salad."

"But not spaghetti," I said.

From the start of our date, the whole evening seemed to be against us.  First, the flat tire on the way to the restaurant; next, the supposedly perfect weather turning into a monsoon.  Now, after ordering and waiting fifteen minutes for Mike to come out of the men's room (he had attempted to dry his soaked clothes with the hand dryer), our dinner had arrived and had already gotten cold.

My drink of choice: a Grande Cappuccino Mocha.  And right then I would've ordered a double if only they served it.

"So, send it back," Mike said.  "Just ask for a new one."

"I'm not sending it back," I said, horrified at the thought.

"Why not?  I would," he said, as if the suggestion would make things any better.

"Because," I replied, "it might come back as spaghetti with 'special sauce' instead of the marinara sauce I ordered in the first place."

"So, order something else then.  Call over the waitress; tell her you made a mistake and really wanted the Fettuccine Alfredo instead."

Men.  Can't live with 'em; can't shoot 'em.

"Oh, brilliant idea," I said.  "Order more pasta so it gets cold, too."

"So, order something else.  Sheesh!  In case you haven't noticed, I'm trying' to eat here, too," he said in between mouthfuls of his own meal.

"Well, it sure looks like you're doing a fine job of it," I said.  "Is yours cold yet, by chance?"

He paused, chewing as if to test my suggestion.  "Now that you mentioned it, yes it is, thank you very much."

"So send it back."  Back atcha, I thought.

"Very funny.  And no, I'm not sending it back."

"Why not?  You just said you would if you were me."

"Yeah, but I'm not you; besides, I don't mind cold pizza," he said, bringing a slice of supreme to his mouth and biting a huge chunk out of it.  "It's one of those foods you can enjoy either way: cold or hot."

"Oh really?  Are there a lot of those types of foods?  Because I know spaghetti isn't one of them!"

"Yes, as a matter of fact there are; and for your information, Jane, spaghetti is one of them."

"You would eat spaghetti cold?  You're serious?" I said.  I took my plate and extended it out to him.  "Well in that case, why don't you eat it, then?"

"Because...I'm...having...pizza," he said, now eating as if his precious pizza would soon disappear-which it soon would, at the rate he was devouring it.

"So," I said.  "You eat like a horse anyway.  Come on, be a gentleman and eat my spaghetti so I can order a fresh plate, preferably a hot one."

Mike took a big swallow, pizza sauce now dripping from the corners of his mouth.  "I do not eat like a horse.  For your information, I have a high metabolism."

"Whatever," I said, ready for this date to be over with.  "If you have a high metabolism, I'll eat cold spaghetti for a week!"

Noticing the sudden eery silence, we both looked around only to see everyone within earshot pretending not to eavesdrop; some, no doubt, thinking they would look much less suspicious if they simply used their menus as a blind to peek over.

Lowering his voice to a whisper, Mike said, "Just call over the waitress already, and quit making such a big deal out of it, please."

"If I'm paying for something, I expect it to be right," I whispered back.

"You're not paying for it, Jane, I am."

Touché.

"So then be a gentleman and let the lady order a decent, hot meal," I retorted.

"Then order it already.  Sheesh!" he said, still whispering.

"Okay, then," I said.  "And stop saying Sheesh! already."

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