“Annie?” John prompts again when I don’t answer right away.
Right! Conversation. You can do this, Annie. No need to clam up because the man asked you about a topic you actually like. Flowers. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.
I swallow and prepare for my answer. “Um—it’s fun.” John waits a moment and then tips forward slightly, clearly expecting me to say more. “Really fun,” I tack on to appease his desire for a sentence with a higher word count.
I would elaborate, but now the only thing swirling around my brain is the reproductive cycle of flowers （which I find deeply fascinating）， but I have a distinct feeling that John is not the type to marvel at life science. So I clamp my mouth shut again.
“So it’s…really fun?” he asks and I nod. “Well, good.” He breathes in deeply and then settles back in his chair and looks away. We bathe in uncomfortable silence. This would prompt most people to say something—anything—but not me. I freeze up even more. The weight of carrying on a conversation is too heavy for my shoulders.
I am the quiet one in my family. The one with her nose always in a book because she prefers worlds where she doesn’t have to interact with other humans. It’s so much easier to read about relationships than to foster them. Less dangerous too. I can’t offend anyone written into a book. I can’t say the wrong thing. And book characters don’t make judgments about me.
When John pulls out his cell phone and starts scrolling, I realize I have to take a stab at some sort of conversation, or this night is going to be over before it starts. “So, John,” I begin, and then during the next ten minutes I pretty much black out as I blabber nonstop, only regaining consciousness as I’m finishing up with, “And that’s why the primary purpose of the flower is reproduction.”
“Wow. Okay. That was…a lot of information about flowers,” he says with an expression resembling something close to haunted. Clearly my stab at conversation went right through him, and he’s bleeding out.
I smile timidly and glance around for our waitress. It’s so busy in here she hasn’t been around to take our order after getting our drinks. I could really use an interruption right about now.
Nothing.
“So—uh—do you at least have any hobbies?” he asks.
Oh geez, “at least.” I’m already so far off his dating radar that he’s looking for an at least to redeem me in some small way.
I clench the fabric of my dress under the table. I do have a hobby—but even my sisters don’t know about it, so I sure as crap am not going to share it with this man who looks like spending time with me is causing him physical discomfort.
“Flowers sort of are my hobby as well as my career.”
“Right,” he says blandly because I’ve once again shut down any conversational avenues. Why am I like this? I need to talk. Ask him questions! Why can’t I think of any? My brain is a whiteboard, polished clean.
But he’s tapping his finger on the table now and looking away from me.
In a fit of panic, I blurt the first thing that comes to my head. “I want to get married.”
Oh look, I’ve finally said something that gets John’s attention.
He stares at me, open-mouthed and in shock, because, yep, I just mentioned marriage during a date that was already tanking.
Trying to recover, I tag on, “Oh no, not to you!” My smile fades when I see his face contort. “Well, maybe to you. Who knows? If things go well tonight anything can happen.” Now I realize I’ve made it sound like we’re absolutely going to bed together tonight, and John has to pleasure me well enough to win me over. Super.
“Sorry—no, I didn’t mean you have to be good at you know what…for me to marry you. I’m sure there’s a learning curve when it comes to that sort of thing.”
Now his face drains of all color because I’m making this so much worse. John blink, blink, blinks at me, completely at a loss for how to respond. There’s no salvaging this date.
“Will you excuse me, John? I need to use the bathroom.” And regroup. And possibly climb out the window and run away.
He’s so relieved he will be exempt from my company for a few minutes that he eagerly nods. “Yes, take your time!”
I stand on wobbly legs and walk across the restaurant, irrationally feeling like everyone in here is staring at how awkwardly this dress fits me. It’s my sister’s dress, so it’s a little long on me. It hugs all my curves like it’s supposed to but then drowns my knees and hovers midcalves, unlike where it hits on Emily, just above her knees. She wears this dress on her many successful dates because she doesn’t have an ounce of social anxiety. I stole it out of her closet and stowed it away in my purse so she wouldn’t notice when I left our house and ask where I was going. I didn’t have anything of my own to wear because I never go on nice dates （I haven’t been on one since three years ago, when one progressed very similarly to this one）。