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First Date In A Bad Resteraunt

First Date In A Bad Resteraunt First Date in A Bad Restaurant It was a beautiful fall evening. The sun was just beginning to give way to incoming twilight. I could smell winter in the air, even through my closed window. Soon there’d be snow on the ground. Matchbox Twenty was playing on my clock radio.

I want to push you around..” The mood was set for a soft autumn night. However the mood inside my room was quite different. I was running around trying to do a million things a one time. My makeup was all wrong for my outfit. My hair was too big, no, now too flat.

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My stomach was rolling inside itself. My poor tummy was on tumble dry and I couldn’t quite get it to stop. I couldn’t find my shoes; my shirt had foundation on the side. What I really wanted to do was to sit on my bed and cry. Brian had called twenty minutes before the chaos.

I could not believe he had called me. He probably thought I was stupid because I was so tongue-tied. He asked me if I would mind coming to dinner with him and a few of his friends. Would I mind? Do cows moo? The horn honked. My frustration grew.

If this was a real date, my first one ever, shouldn’t he come to the door and pick me up? Maybe take my arm in his and lead me to the car? I had envisioned my first date to at least start off right. This must be an omen. I walked out the door. The moment I heard the click of the lock I knew I looked horrible. A million thoughts raced through my mind, among these were the fact that I should have worn the blue shirt, my hair looks horrible, and oh God everyone is watching me. I tried to hide the sheer gut-retching fear that was boiling in my stomach. I had to do this.

I was in too deep to turn and run now. My sweet chariot of the night was a 1988 van. Rust covered the bumper and half of the door. The color of Spooner 2 had once been maroon, however had now faded to a slight orange color. Alternative rock boomed from the less then quality speakers. There were at least 6 people in the car, and it was rocking from side to side, in time to the beat. Upon climbing in the van, I was greeted by 7 of my closest friends and their dates.

This is was the night of my dreams, and it was going to be shared with 7 other people. I resisted the urge to groan out loud, and instead rocked to the beat of the pulsing music. I had no idea what the singer was screaming into his microphone, however I highly doubted that this was a night for soft, easy music. We arrived at the dining establishment of choice. A little bar slash pizza place called the B-Line.

This restaurant was really a sports bar with a menu. I knew it was the boys’ choice. Brian and I took seats next to each other. We joked around, and talked with our friends. I looked at the place. Pool tables lined in a separate room.

There were four television sets in each corner of the dining room. One had what seemed 24 hours of beer and bimbo commercials. Two others had on football games with the hard hits in highlights. Finally the fourth was playing the news. The jukebox playing hard-hitting heavy metal drowned all these out.

It wasn’t the romantic, expensive restaurant I had envisioned for my first date ever. We ordered a big pizza all to split. The greasy cheese stretched to what seemed beyond belief. Our waitress was a harried looking young woman who was tired and ready to go home. The last thing she needed that night was 9 loud obnoxious teenagers added to her workload. So she was really rude, and in turn, her tip was lacking a bit also. I was about to leave the building, and the memory of this first date behind, when Brian nudged my arm.

With a shy half smile he asked me if I had a date for homecoming. I told him no, butterflies dancing a samba in my stomach. Brian nodded and asked if I would accompany him to the dance. Dizzily I accepted. So my first date wasn’t exactly how I had planned. My first homecoming was three weeks from that day, and I remember smiling to myself as Brian took my hand under the table.

I planned on choosing our restaurant for that date! Engineering Reports.

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