#bestworstdate

We met at a bar not far from my office for an early evening drink. He was nice enough, but the conversation felt a little awkward and forced. After about 45 minutes we got our bill, which was half off due to a Happy Hour special we weren’t aware of. He flipped it over and suggested we split it. The total was $7, so I told him I’d cover it.

We met for drinks, and he spent much of the time telling me about the prestigious private high school he went to, followed by the not really a big deal, not quite Ivy League college. Then gushes about his super important job and amazingly talented children. I pushed my sleeve up to scratch my wrist as he talked, and he noticed my tattoo. He inquired if that was my only. I replied no, I had more, and asked if he had any. He leaned back in his chair, placed both arms behind his head and let out a long sigh. “Of course not,” he replied, and gestured his hand down his body, “you don’t put a bumper sticker on a Ferrari.”