On Romance: A Date Gone Wrong

I went on a date with a guy. Usually, I wouldn’t have bothered but stuck in my self-imposed prison-room, on my bed, nose deep in books, my friends were convinced that I wasn't letting school pass through me. I was just passing through it. Tsk! I turned to the next page. It was when they said that I was no ‘fun’ that I tore my eyes off my book and jerked my head up. My neck hurt from the sudden movement. Ironic, isn't it? Since even though I am no comedian, they laugh at my jokes just fine. Did it matter that I can't relate easily with the other half of the population, especially those that cannot discuss books and ideas? What does it matter if I don't club? And so what if I detest loud banging music? It does not make me less fun. Does it?  I wasn't sure anymore. So I asked, "What is fun?” The reply came fast. 
Boys. 

Dates. 

So when this random guy asked me out, I decided to have fun. My mistake. 

Looking back now, I should have just used one of my lines: I would be sick on that day. But he said he was romantic. And pretty convincingly so. The fun part aside, I was curious. What is romantic?  I mean, outside the social media awwns! How does it play out in real life? 

I went to see. Oh boy! I was in for a long drama. At first, it began like an introduction, he traced his patrilineal ancestry and their phenomenal feats. I must have looked so stunned because he winked at me and said, “We will add to it.” I choked on my water. When we choke on food, we drink water. And when we choke on water what do we do? Cough? And cough I did. Till I coughed out my entrails. 

I don't think he noticed. He kept speaking. He gave me a list of other romantic things: we hug when we meet—only because I said I was sensitive. Over time, we will kiss. Other things I can't tell. No. Not secrets. I just can't remember. I zoned out. 

He spoke for a while. When his throat began to hurt, he reached for water and asked after me…about me. I must be boring. Because as soon as I began, he dozed off. I should have quietly taken my bag and crept out. But it was hot outside, the scenery (aside from the guy) was good and the air conditioner was on another level. I decided to stay and enjoy the silence. I opened an ebook on my phone and began to have fun. It got even funnier when he started snoring. My friends will later ask me—in disbelief—for pictures and videos capturing this moment and I will have none to show. 

Truthfully, it didn't occur to me. Cogs were turning. Romantic or not. Fun or not. React or not. Wake him or not? The nays were winning. But I, as democratic as ever, wanted to wait for all my brain cells to vote before closing the polls. He woke before they finished. “I am sorry,” he apologized. I calmed down. ‘I went for prayers last night.’ I riled up. I had come by from church, with my scarf still in place, I must have looked like a clown because he took me for a fool.

I didn't blame him much. It’s me who listened to his pleas to move up the time just a bit—to the time my mass ends—because he had some emergency meeting that would affect our previous time arrangement. But I can't judge. I didn't spend the night with him. Neither will I spend any other minute with him. I let my chair scrape the tiles as I jumped up. He raised an eyebrow. “I have to go,” I blurted out. 

“Why? Did something happen? We are having such a good time.”

“I…um..” I wished I had not been so impulsive. I would have taken my time to stage a call. Feign urgency. And how ‘whatever’ required my attention. I didn't. So I decided to stick with the truth. “My head hurts.”

He looked at me, searching my face for something.  I stayed expressionless. Well, I hope I did. I didn't want to give more away. It was enough that I forgot my manners and scraped the tiles (my mother will never hear of it). I didn't want to go ahead and tell him how unbearable I found his company. How I’d rather stand for hours under the sun. 

My tiredness must have been obvious. Because he sighed and said, “Okay, let me drop you.”

I sighed with relief first. Then I panicked. Another minute with him is just all I need to run mad. “It’s fine. Thank you for offering. The campus is just across. Remember I told you I like walks.”

Of course, he did not remember. He had just begun to doze off when I mentioned it. I like to think that he tried. His head tilted slightly as he weighed this information, trying to fit it into this puzzle of me. He was not successful. He shrugged and let it go. I dashed out. And sighed with an unexaggerated relief. This time, it stayed. I thought about a few things as I walked. About romance and romantic. Fun and funny. If the two mean the same. 

If you say something is fun. Does it make it funny? 

If you want romance, do you have to be romantic?

Does one have to lead to the other?

 

Now, years later, I still think about it. I think about the guy. I wonder if he is married. If his romance was working out or not. Even more, I thought about what it meant to be romantic. 

When I dared bare my thoughts, it would be to two of my friends. One said the last guy who told her he was romantic wanted romance. Just in case I did not understand, she spelled it out. Romance meant sex. More like, the foreplay leading to sex. 

Of course, I understood. I felt dumb. I should have known. So why did my mouth gape and my eyes round in incredulity. 

The other nodded vigorously, while telling us about this romantic guy that couldn’t stop touching her.

“I called him a pervert,” she told us.

“But he said he was being romantic.” (I promise I wasn’t thinking about my date’s list).

On a good day, I would have shared my thoughts first, but I hate to seem ‘no fun’—any more than I already do.

So you go first. What is romance? What does being romantic mean to you? 

P.S: This is probably my last, second to last, third to last...well, just one of my last blog posts. It is difficult to let go since I have been writing consistently every month for the past three years. But don't fret. I will still every now and then, and of course, on my newsletter. So subscribe if you have not.

To every Rose that grew from Concrete; Blossom!