The Verdict of the First Date

This was the moment of truth: the verdict of the first date.

“I actually had a really good time,” he whispered, running his fingers down my arm to meet my hand.

My stupid smile fell from my face to a sideways look. Actually?

“Why did you say ‘actually?’” I teased. “Were you not planning to have a good time?”

He moved his hand to my waist and shifted his weight toward me. I could smell the sweet, elusive scent of aged bourbon on his breath.

“No, it’s just, you’re not really my type,” he responded, pulling me closer.

Our lips were inches from one another, “So, then, what’s your type?” I awkwardly laughed.

He put it simply. “Really hot girls,” and then he leaned in to kiss me…

I wish I could say I pushed him away in shocking disbelief that someone ‘actually’ said that to me.

I wish I could say that was the last time we ‘actually’ saw each other.

Instead, dating in my 20s has ‘actually’ been some of the most humbling, amusing, frustrating, fatiguing, thrilling, disappointing, and bewildering experiences of my life.

I have a roster of best, worst first date stories; a collection of contacts all ending in something like “First Name Hinge *Random City*”; and beautiful memories from people I never heard from again.

It’s the best, it’s the worst.
That’s just dating in your 20s, I guess.