Sweet Tarts for a Runaway Valentine

Summary

The author recounts a disappointing first meeting with a man who is emotionally distant, overly formal, and preoccupied with his past.

Abstract

Today, the author went on a first date with a man who showed up late and was critical of the chosen cafe. Despite the author's attempts to lighten the mood with humor and desert suggestions, the date was met with a lack of reciprocal warmth or interest. The man, who is a deacon at a nearby church and recently widowed, was more focused on discussing his late wife's ailments, his adult son's struggles, and his own health concerns than getting to know the author. He presented a formal demeanor, sharing a detailed resume, business card, and personal health records. The date ended without a second invitation, and the man left with a box of Sweet Tarts intended for the author's nieces and nephews.

Opinions

The author felt the date was not successful, as evidenced by the man's late arrival, criticism of the cafe, and insistence on splitting the bill.
The man seemed more interested in discussing his past, including his late wife's issues and his own health, rather than engaging with the author.
The author was unimpressed by the man's formal and somewhat off-putting behavior, such as presenting a resume and health records on a first date.
The man's failure to acknowledge the author's humor or desert suggestion indicated a lack of chemistry and connection.

Sweet Tarts for a Runaway Valentine

Today I started dating, well merely a first meeting, no pressure. I chose the place because it’s close to a store selling handmade Valentines for kids and I bought a bunch. He was 20 minutes late, hated the cafe’s clatter. I suggested butterscotch en pot de crème for desert, mentioned it was so good last time I licked the pot. He didn’t grin at my exaggeration, said it’s the rule: first dates are always Dutch.

I paid for two at the register, $24.63 including tip, carried the Queen of Hearts server card to a table outside. The sun was too bright, he said. I slurped red lentil soup, considered how to adjust it. He had a two-egg breakfast, no meat, showed me fuzzy snapshots of his life laminated on binder sheets. He provided a detailed resume, handed me a business card, shared results of his colonoscopy, negative; wore a polyester blue suit off the discount rack, a white fedora to hide balding. He is 72, a deacon at a nearby church, offered a special communion package, if I came and sat on the right side.

His wife, he said, recently died, but she left him and his infant son years ago, gaining 80 pounds on purpose after the break, just to spite him, he guessed. She was manic depressive, had Lou Gehrig’s disease, suffered from post-partum depression and MS and all the afflictions of Job. The last months with her in hospice were gruesome for his adult son. But, he didn’t explain the heart-shaped bruise on the back of his hand, a tattletale sign of blood-thinner meds used for mending broken hearts. I didn’t ask about the attack.

He didn’t ask to see me again, ran to his getaway car, a punk who’d just pulled a bank job in broad f-ing February daylight. A smug knave, he stole my tarts, took them clean away. These children’s sweets came in a small pink box with “Hugs” embossed in gold script on the outside. Inside it was filled with Sweet Tarts and chocolate kisses. He made off with the stash, didn’t read the directions, sent a followup email: “You are welcome to view my Facebook page with many albums of photographs.”