The man with the dog

January 27, 2010

After 5 months of what I call eye flirtation, with a cute man that works in a random stove top/ electrical repair store near my apartment, the day arrived when we spoke. I walked past the shop and plucked up the courage to say hello. The ice was broken. We introduced ourselves and chatted briefly then I continued onto work, kicking myself that I didn’t ask him out. But my head rules told me that if a guy liked me, he would ask me out. The weekend passed and three days later we spoke again. He asked me for my number. It was at this point that I started to realise he wasn’t the man for me. His pet dalmatian was very cute. For that matter so was he. But he was extemely thin, had insanely gaunt cheeks, spoke with a lisp, smoked and I think was perhaps “nel armardio” (in the closet). He asked me out for a drink that night and against my better judgement I accepted. After work, we met and zoomed down to the local drinking hole on his scooter. As we sat and chatted about music, about life, he decided it was time to regale me with his problems of depression, anxiety and athlete’s foot. “My feet sweat a lot and they smell. It’s an illness you know, like a fungus.” At this point, not knowing whether to laugh, cry or vomit, any last shred of hope for romance vanished.