Romantic Nonsense

The cab smelled like stale perfume and onion rings. Perfect for the night Max had dragged me into. He hadn’t told me where we were going—just texted “be outside in ten,” and then honked like a lunatic when I took twelve.

I slid into the backseat. Max was already there, chipper. Way too chipper.

“So,” he said, cracking open a Red Bull like he was gearing up for combat. “We gonna talk about how you’re still actively screwing up the one good thing in your life?”

“I swear to God—”

“I mean, I’d kill to have an ex like Angelica texting me. But no. You gotta get all emotionally constipated about it.”

“She’s not texting me.”

“That’s even worse!” he said, delighted. “She’s ignoring you. Which is like texting, but with a big slice of cruelty on the side.”

The driver snorted softly.

“So you have woman problems,” she said, eyes on the road.

“I have Max problems.”

She chuckled. “That sounds like both.”

I groaned and leaned my head against the window. The glass was cool. Judgmental. I stared at my reflection and briefly considered cliff diving at low tide for sport.

The driver looked at me again. Really looked. That kind of glance that could either end in therapy or a proposition.

“So … what’s the deal?” she asked. “She hot?”

Max didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, very.”

“Smart?”

“Ridiculously.”

“Wow,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “And you’re the one who doesn’t want her?”

“It’s complicated,” I mumbled.

“I like complicated.”

Max leaned in like he was watching the season finale of my downfall.

I elbowed him. “Where are we going, anyhow?”

Max wiped the grin off his face just long enough to say, “Speed dating.”

My head snapped toward him. “Absolutely not.”

“You’re going.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re already in the car.”

“I can get out of the car.”

Max shrugged. “What if Brie’s there again?”

I blinked. “Brie?”

He nodded, trying to look casual and failing. “Yeah. Any Brie.”

Something in my lizard brain flickered to life. Brie. Red lipstick. Crooked smile. That laugh. The one I turned down like a complete idiot a couple of weeks ago. The one who made me realize how badly I needed to get laid. But, for some reason, I insisted on sabotaging the opportunity.

I said nothing.

Max, sensing weakness, went for the kill.

“To be clear,” he told the driver, “Brie was into him. And he turned her down. Like a lunatic.”

“Brie?”

“Yeah. Hot to trot. Speed dating expert. Threw herself at him. Probably out of pity.”

The driver’s eyes widened slightly in the mirror. “So let me get this straight. He turns down the hot, smart one … then the hot one from speed dating … and now he’s whining in the back of my cab?”

“He has issues,” Max said.

“You think?”

I was still trying to remember how to breathe.

“I’m sitting right here,” I muttered.

The driver’s expression shifted from amused to entertained to … intrigued. She gave me another once-over in the mirror. Slower this time.

“You know,” she said, “this much damage usually comes with a neck tattoo and a Spotify playlist titled ‘Everything Is Fine.’”

“Thank you?” I said.

She laughed. “It wasn’t a compliment.”

Max elbowed me back. “Dude. I think she likes you.”

“She likes watching me suffer.”

“Same thing.”

The driver smirked. “You know … if speed dating doesn’t work out, I’m free after midnight.”

I stared at the back of her head. “Please don’t.”

“Why not?” she said. “I like a good fixer-upper. You look like someone who’d ruin my life and then apologize six months later through a voicemail.”

Max was howling.

“I’m getting out of this car,” I said.

“We’re still ten minutes away.”

“I’ll walk.”

The driver glanced at Max. “He always like this?”

“Only when women speak to him.”

She laughed again, sharper this time. “Hot. Sad. And afraid of connection. Yep … I definitely want to take a crack at you.”

Max gasped, wheezing into the sleeve of his hoodie. “This is the best night of my life.”

I pressed my forehead against the window and closed my eyes.

The worst was yet to come.

Saturday – 7:05 PM

It was supposed to be a trendy Seattle hot spot on Pike Street. Max said it had been promoted as ideal for speed dating because of its quintessential Seattle vibe. LGBTQ+ friendly, nightlife-heavy, artsy, chaotic.

In reality, it was ‘The Velvet Shrub,’ a place where the drinks are twelve bucks and your dignity costs extra.

The ambience was dim, but in that intentional ‘lighting hides disappointment’ kind of way. Candles flickered on tiny cocktail tables. A sign by the door read: “Find Your Forever in Five Minutes!” which sounded less like romance and more like an existential threat.

Max was already halfway to the check-in table, high-fiving the woman with the clipboard.

“This,” he said, spinning dramatically, “is exactly what you need.”

I looked around. Everyone was attractive, in a curated way. The atmosphere felt like it had been focus-grouped for maximum superficial trauma.

“I need therapy,” I muttered. “Not this.”

A name tag was shoved into my hand. ‘Hi, I’m Dak!’

It seemed more like a warning label.

Max, naturally, had written his own, ‘I’m Max. You’re Welcome.’

Of course he did.

Round One: “Are We Married Now?”

My first “date” leaned in before I even sat down.

Her smile was sharp enough to require a license. “So. Where do you see yourself in five years?”

“Uh. Hopefully alive?”

“I already picked our wedding venue. It has a waterfall.”

I stared at her.

She sipped her drink like that was a normal sentence. “You look like you’d photograph well in linen.”

“I need a drink.”

Round Two: “Influencer Energy”

This one had a ring light clipped to her phone and no regard for the concept of privacy.

She lifted the phone immediately. “Say hi to my followers!”

“I’d rather die.”

“Awww, you’re so mysterious! I love a tortured artist vibe.”

“I’m in marketing.”

“Oh. That’s worse.”

I looked across the room at Max. He was doubled over laughing. His date looked like she could disassemble a man for sport.

I mouthed, ‘I’m going to strangle you.’

He gave me two thumbs up and the finger.

Round Three: “Corporate Hell”

She sat down, narrowed her eyes, and tilted her head.

“Wait. Don’t you work at Sterling Marketing?”

“Nope. Never heard of it.”

“I swear I’ve seen you in the office.”

“I’m in sales,” I said. “At … cars. I sell cars. Zoom zoom.”

She blinked. “You’re the guy from the third floor who always microwaves fish.”

“I hate fish.”

“And you stole the parrot just to—”

I stood up mid-sentence. “Good chat.”

The Bartender: Unimpressed

I finally staggered to the bar and collapsed onto a stool, like someone who’d just run from a bear. An emotionally available, makeup-wearing bear named Brie.

Jesse, the bartender, looked at me with the deadpan pity of someone who’d just watched a gazelle try to fight a lion with a spoon.

“You might be the worst single guy I’ve ever seen.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

He slid me a drink I didn’t order. I stared at it like it might have the answers.

Max appeared behind me, grinning like a man who’d just won a reality show.

“So,” he said, clapping me on the back. “How’d it go?”

“I hate you.”

“Dude. You were thriving. I saw you conversing!”

“I blacked out at some point.”

“That’s called flow, my guy. At least you weren’t weeping into your napkin.”

I looked down at my untouched drink. Then up at the bar mirror. Then back at my reflection—glassy-eyed, sweaty, name tag slightly crooked.

And all I could think was: “This is not what moving on looks like.”