The Russian

Somehow, over a wide glass of merlot, and a plateful of garlic-buttered shrimp, I agreed to a blind date. This wouldn’t be so surprising if I hadn’t been sharing the gourmet snack with my best friend’s parents. As they listened to me rambling on about my collection of failed relationships, sadness fell over them. They did what any helpful couple would do—they put their heads together and with much effort produced one name they could both agree on. “He will be perfect for you! Don’t you think honey? Wouldn’t she just love him?”

I was in shock. Somehow I had gotten his description backwards. I was imagining a 6’5” blond, built stranger with a Scottish accent. In the wake of my imaginary hero was a 5’7,” fair skinned, light haired, blue-eyed Russian, who was grinning from ear to ear. I took a moment to reframe the situation. I introduced myself pleasantly, all the while thinking: Don’t judge, he’s probably very interesting. Besides, I love meeting new people even if I’m not attracted to them physically.

He had a brisk walking pace so that I was always about half a sidewalk square behind him, allowing me hints into our “surprise date.” He was wearing linen shorts just above the knee and a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled. On his back was an oversized knapsack-- it’s contents spilling out of it’s unzipped top. I could see a baguette, a bottle of rose, a brown blanket, and what looked to me like finely sliced meats.

After half a bottle of Provence rose, and a few sips of rum he convinced me to continue drinking at a small little martini bar conveniently located half a block from his house. Two blueberry martinis and half a chocolate mousse later he led me to his home so that we could call a cab from his place. At the time this seemed legit, but in sober hindsight, I could have called a cab from anywhere.

He had won me over through his ability to tell phenomenal stories, coupled with the fact that he had done some master’s research developing hat-like contraptions that could read brain waves and translate them into words, enabling communication for patients suffering from the end stages of ALS (a fatal neurodegenerative disease). What can I say? I like nerds. However, when we stepped into his bedroom (he was giving me the tour) his TV screen was featuring the image of a wood-burning fireplace that even had crackling sound effects. It was hilarious. Furthermore, there was romantic music playing. Unless he had hidden a remote control in his pocket, he had planned that the evening would end in his room—to a fake fire and sensual sounds. Exit stage left, running all the way!