Mr. Blind Date

Sometimes, when I’ve had a few drinks in me, I will agree to do some questionable things, some of which can be perfectly reasonable, some of which can be somewhat silly.  At the time, I thought that agreeing to be set up on a blind date was something that had a foot in both camps.

This date was completely blind.  Friend X set up the whole thing, down to the day, time, and location.  The only thing I knew going into it was my Mr. Blind Date’s first name.

I was told that Mr. Blind Date would be seated by the door and wearing a blue shirt.

Presumably, Friend X told Mr. Blind Date that I was Asian, which, in Paris, is usually enough to pick me out of the crowd.

When I arrived, I saw that Mr. Blind Date was already seated with a glass of whisky, so I flagged down the server as I walked over and ordered one as well before I sat down.

Just as my butt hit the chair, Mr. Blind Date leaned back, downed his drink, and said,

“I thought you were supposed to be pretty.”

Then he got up, threw down a tenner, and strode out the door.

For the record, his drink cost twelve euros.