Your Date with Lauren

You’ve got a date. It’s with that girl you met in front of the Art Gallery. She was waiting for her friends or classmates or whomever and looking good, like an open-minded, liberal, art school girl. High-waisted, flat-fronted blue jeans with immaculately cuffed legs, hugging wonderfully full hips. A clingy, short-sleeved black top tucked into the jeans with just enough cleavage to evoke Rubens, or more contemporarily, Currin. A severe hairstyle with bangs to the eyebrows and bob cut just under the jawline with what must have been a plasma cutter framing her angelic face with a curtain of chestnut. And that face - you’ve seen plenty of gorgeous faces since arriving in the States, but… Eyes like half-moons, skin like warm cream. Lips, pouty and thick with a punch of fire engine red. It’s like a sculptor went into your dreams, copied your fantasy and brought it to life. Your perfect woman.

You walked up to her and said, ‘Hello. My name’s Owen. What’s yours?’

She said, ‘Lauren.’

You’ve found dating in America pretty easy. The accent does most of the work. ‘Well, hello, Lauren. I’d like to take you dinner.’

Lauren looked down at her feet, laughing timidly. ‘I don’t even know you.’

‘Well, I reckon you’d want to get to know me before I ask you to marry me.’

Lauren looks back up at you, her eyes dazzling. ‘You’re not like other guys.’

You cock your head and smile. ‘Well, I should hope not.’ You pull out your phone and prime it to add a new contact and hand it to her. She bites her lower lip and takes it without breaking eye contact. Then she enters her number and hands it back to you. You call her. Her rear pocket starts playing that Haim song no one gives a shit about. She takes out her phone. ‘Now you have my number and my heart.’ When she didn’t roll her eyes you knew you had her.

You opt for Tavern for the date. Away from campus, head chef was on Chopped, plus they have that amazing grilled octopus. And oysters. You arrive at 7.15 for your 7.30 reservation to make sure you get the good table by the window. You get it and order a Peroni. And then you wait, the anticipation warming your blood. You bask in expectation.

She arrives. Her consignment store floral print dress doesn’t quite hit her in the right ways but the plunging neckline and visible black lace bra allow you to forgive the mediocre attempt at glamour. You rise and pull out her seat, taking the opportunity to leer at her backside. You subtly adjust yourself as you sit back down.

After orders are placed and her glass of Chardonnay is served she says, ‘So, Owen. Tell me something interesting about yourself.’

You begin. ‘Well, once I was abducted.’

‘Abducted?’

‘Yeah. Abducted.’

‘By aliens?’

‘No, no, no. Not by aliens. By people.’

‘So you were kidnapped?’

‘Sure. That’s what you call it,’ you say.

‘Who kidnapped you?’

‘It was an extremist group.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, this happened back in London. You see my father is a big deal in the government. And they thought they could get some money for me.’

‘Who is your father?’

‘He’s the Leader of the Opposition Party. But his party was projected to take power when I was abducted.’

‘How awful,’ Lauren says. You can tell she wants to hear more.

‘Oh it was. They needed a proof-of-life video but I refused to cooperate so they zapped my bollocks with a car battery.’

‘Oh my god,’ Lauren gasps.

‘Yeah. It hurt like bloody hell. But it left me sterile and makes it difficult to finish so I’m a dynamo in bed.’ Lauren doesn’t quite hide her disgust. You sense you’re losing her. ‘I’m just joking. It can be rather difficult to discuss so I try to laugh about it.’ Her expression eases into one of sympathy and she nods. You feel absolved.

‘Can I ask how it ended?’

‘Sure,’ you respond. ‘One of them got cold feet and went to the police - turned himself in. Blue berets came and rescued me, arrested the others.’

‘Lucky you,’ Lauren says.

‘I tend to get lucky,’ you respond with a smile. She laughs reluctantly and rolls her eyes. You’re back in business.

The rest of dinner goes well. You offer to drive her home. She agrees but asks if you can swing by her friend’s place first for a quick visit. You comply - never hurts to meet a friend.

The friend lives behind a falafel restaurant downtown. You find a parking space and open Lauren’s door for her. She leads you around the restaurant to a small building that is not well lit. You again open the door for Lauren and she rushes inside. You notice it’s too dark for anyone to be home and then someone throws something over your head and pushes you into the space. You’re forced to the ground and from not too far away you hear Lauren talking, now with a strong Irish accent, ‘So help me, if any of you bastards gets cold feet and goes to the authorities...’ Before you consider screaming for help you think about how sexy you find her brogue and wonder if there’s still a chance.