Date 19 - Sharing Korma

Not sure what to say about Kevin aka Swamp Rat. 

I got his number from a friend, but knew practically nothing about him. We'd been on one date so far, but I really only established that he loves food and CrossFit. I also had a (bizarrely long) series of texts to go on, but didn't have much of a sense of his personality. He seems rather keen, which I suppose is a good thing. For example, when I asked him what we should do for our date on Sunday night, he had a few suggestions.



How to choose?

Get dinner? Go bowling? Stay in and cook together? Get drinks? Play pool? Boardgame cafe? Go for a walk?

He also asks a lot of questions and uses games to keep our conversation going. If it is a stratagem, it’s a brilliant one. I can never resist a question. Instead of simply telling one another what we do for a living, we gave vague clues to make each other guess. It was challenging and fun. He told me to ask him something random, which was foolish, and his answer to “Ever make out with your cousin?” was laughter (I assume, since texting “I can’t stop laughing,” isn’t a 100% reliable indicator of true laughter) followed by a “No.”

Some standard questions and some inventive ones followed, which was fun. But Sunday came along and I would soon see my pen pal in person again.

When the time came for decision-making, I was feeling totally overwhelmed by the number and variety of date options, and totally unwilling to go over to a random dude’s house to cook, and also a little exhausted from weeks of non-stop dating and volleyball (seriously, 19 dates, 20 volleyball games and two tournaments in 19 days = insanity). I asked Kevin if he had a favourite East Indian restaurant, and somehow we ended up going to mine.

I wasted a good five minutes figuring out where to park before I remembered that it was Sunday, and thus, rules do not matter. Suck it, parking minions! I had only ever ordered takeout from this restaurant, (Because it is across the street from my best friend’s apartment building, we tend to pick up our orders and eat at his place where the wine is cheaper and nobody has to wear pants.) but I love it. The woman who runs it, Samaira, is super friendly, and the tandoori chicken is heavenly and wildly spicy.

The place was empty and I had my choice of table. I glanced over the menu, which was just for show, since I knew I wanted vindaloo. Maybe I’d get beef instead of chicken, but really it was a no-brainer. I was just taking out a notebook to occupy myself by writing blog drafts, when Kevin walked in. He was taller than I remembered, or maybe he just looked taller next to Samaira, who was welcoming him. He had a widow’s peak, shaved hair, a nice jawline and a conceivably fit body under his sweater. He grinned at me and came over to my table. I wasn’t quite sure what to do. I had a notebook in my hand, and I somehow neglected to put it down when I stood up to meet him. It was a weird hug (Though, to be fair, practically all of my hugs are weird.) and he said “Hi,” softly in my ear as though we’d known each other for ages.

He sat down and we started talking. He guessed from my clues (which must have been terrible and misleading) that I was a chef. I suspect this may have been why he’d invited me to cook with him. Nope, not a chef. I had a pretty solid idea of his job description from the outset, but never did manage to come up with the exact title. He thought my clues were clever, but maybe a little too difficult.

At last! Water!

I forgot to give him time to look at the menu. When Samaira came by to take our order, Kevin asked for some tea and I told her I was happy with water. I was ecstatic with water, actually. My lips were chapped to hell and I was still a bit dehydrated from my weekend of drinking whiskey and running around. She explained that Kevin’s tea would arrive after the meal and left us to talk about food.

“What should we have?” He asked, assuming that we would be sharing food. Oh buggar. I had not anticipated that. I suppose that’s how it works. Sharing. Right. People do that.

We talked about levels of spice (which took vindaloo off the table) and our favourite dishes. I’d had (and loved) the korma before, so that was my suggestion. We also settled on medium-spiced curry, malai kofta, and saffron rice. Compromise and sharing. Ok.

We talked about farms and families, both of us had grown up in rural communities and there was a lot of common ground there. Kevin went to the same college where my dad had studied agriculture back in the day.

When there was a sufficiently long pause in the conversation, I broke out the question cards that my pal (Captain Horatio Longbottom) had made for me. The first one was a self-serving and leading series of questions meant to settle an old (and very bizarre) argument that my friend and I had been (amicably) bickering about for years. The question was: Have you ever seen Rita MacNeil and Meat Loaf in the same room? (No, Kevin hadn't.) Followed by: Have you seen or heard from Meat Loaf since Rita MacNeil died? (No, Kevin hadn't.) But that doesn't mean they're the same person! We laughed at that one, and pulled another card. It asked about camping.

"Sure, camping can be fun. But sometimes it's just two tents."
Say it out loud; it's funnier that way.

We talked about where we love to go camping, and then about movies and addictive tv shows. When it arrived, our shared selection of food was exquisite. When we were finished eating, Samaira brought Kevin his tea and chatted with us about how she developed a passion for math. We split the tab but stayed chatting comfortably until closing time when I had to go to volleyball.

It wasn’t too chilly outside; the sky was clear and dark. Kevin looked around and asked where I was parked. I gestured in the direction of Errol, I could just see his bumper peeking out from the side of my friend’s apartment building. He asked what the number of that street was. When I told him, he looked behind us, presumably to where he was parked on the next street up.

“Ok, well, goodnight!” I said and smiled.

He lingered a moment.

I assumed he was going for a hug. These things happen, or so I’ve learned.

Sally thought it was a hug;
Charles had other plans

Except he wasn’t going for a hug. I didn’t even realize this until after he’d kissed me. What the shit?! That is not a hug.

If I looked as half as stunned as I felt, he probably thinks there is something seriously wrong with me. I hugged him in self-defense, mostly because I thought that was what was going to happen in the first place and I felt like it should. After the hug, he kissed me again, with one hand on my waist and the other along my cheek. Even though it had now happened twice in quick succession, it was still shocking, somehow. I might have kissed him back a little, I honestly can't remember. I do remember that I felt uncomfortable at the thought of making out in the front doorway of the restaurant, probably grossing out poor Samaira. I stepped back, said “good night” and practically sprinted away. Smooth, Emily. Really smooth.

Still not quite sure what to say about Kevin.