He Thinks, She Thinks: A Night on the Town in Georgetown, Part 5
A five-part tale of “boy meets girl” – told from both perspectives – in swanky Georgetown.
I signal to the boys, who’re laughing about something, and they come over, Phil trying to look cool and unmoved, Larry smiling and probably already thinking up a line, and Pete just looking happy to be here. Danielle tells me she’s a marketing something-or-other who-cares at a nonprofit in DuPont and her eyes are just dancing, an almost purplish-looking blue to go with her wavy dirty blonde hair. She looks a little like that girl from “ER” or “Grey’s Anatomy” or whatever, but even prettier.
The girls – who are all somewhat attractive – even the nasty one (who, truth be told, may even be the pick of the litter – isn’t it always that way?), make room for my friends. Everyone is introduced, and I get back to my target. Luckily, she seems interested; at least the girl is more interested in me than my stupid comrades … as if that says something.
“So, where did you grow up exactly, what part of Arlington?”
“I actually grew up in Shirlington. Have you ever been there?”
“Maybe, what part of Arlington is that again? Is it near the Metro station?”
“Ah, not exactly, but yeah it’s near of couple of Metros, if you have a car.”
“Oh, yeah, yeah. OK, now I remember.”
She’s smiling, and this is good news.
“What, it’s called like the coffeehouse capital of Arlington or the Theater District or something, right?”
“Yeah, my parents are always going to the Signature and raving about this or that play. They’re always hankering for me to go with them. I’m always like, well, maybe … but not with you!”
“Hahaha,” I laugh and really mean it.
“I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love my parents and all, but what if there’s like nudity or something else awkward? No thanks.”
“You’re right, you’re right,” I say as I make eye contact. She smiles, looks down, and almost blushes, though to be honest I can’t really tell because of the lighting. I have to fight the urge to pinch her cheeks and go for a quick kiss; I have no idea why that just popped into my head.
I prattle on a bit, mostly off-the-cuff, stuff that’s meant to sound a cross between blasé, serious and funny – the whole repertoire that’s designed to make me sound smart, urbane and witty – stuff I won’t remember two hours from now (20 minutes?) if on trial for my life.
As I always, have trouble remembering girls’ names when I’m out. I’m repeating hers in my head – Danielle, Danielle, Danni, Danielle, which I kinda fancy as it was the name of my first crush in middle school – as well as using it in my sentences as much as is advisable. But those eyes, and that smile! Holy crap, she’s smoking!
This guy is trying pretty hard with some of the stuff he’s prattling on about, but instead of being annoyed I’m slightly flattered. Both he and I know – unless he’s dumb as a rock, which I can tell he’s not, well, not granite-dumb anyway – that the girl almost always has the advantage in these kinda situations; unless the girl in question is a real piece of work, and yes I know a couple pieces of work, and I truly respect that he’s brought his A game.
In that same vein, I’m actually glad for once I brought mine. This purple Donna Karan cost me $895 dollars at Saks in Tysons and it’s by far the most expensive clothing item I’ve ever bought. And I’m very happy it’s working … or whatever.
He’s a guy, I remind myself. Well, at least it makes me feel pretty – Jenny actually said I looked great tonight, high praise indeed. Her wardrobe is full of designer fare; she shops in New York boutiques at least once a year, most such excursions paid for by that Brad she’s going on about, who’s a VP at some business that has to do with pharmaceuticals. Say what you will about the economy, but there are always well-paying jobs in Northwest, and you should see his apartment in Chevy Chase! I’ve told her that Georgetown has more than enough high-end shops for me, not only here but in Tysons and other places … though honestly, if Jenny knew how many things I got at Target, she might never talk to me again.
As he eagerly unfurls the generous rope I’ve given him, something tells me I better rescue him from himself before he becomes more obnoxious and I lose interest. I suggest we all find a table and sit down, ground things a little, but looking around I’m flummoxed by the fact that they’re all taken, and nary a one would fit all eight of us.
To my delight, everyone seems to be paired up and yakking away, even Morose Minnie (who has a remarkable habit of suddenly lighting up when showered with attention, no matter if she was crying an hour ago or not). Men are right; the gentler sex can be quite fickle, but many brutes deserve that and so much more. So. Much. More.
“Hey, why don’t we head over to Woody’s? They have those huge tables there!” Steve yells to everyone. He’s so cute, like an unruly puppy, and try as I might, I smile up into his blue eyes. “Ever been there?” he says, looking at me.
If she wants to sit and talk, that’s fine with me. She must really want to get to know me. I’m really on my rap tonight.
The story about my parents catching me watching that dirty movie on cable when I was 12 really made her laugh, that and those Freudian and Foucault references couldn’t have hurt. Not that I’ve read anything by Freud or Foucault exactly. I just know a little about them from college and through osmosis from an ex-girlfriend who fancied herself an intellectual of some sort.
OK, I know very little about them, but riding the surface of knowledge will get you far in life. In fact, I may’ve gotten the Foucault thing mixed up with something Jean Paul Sartre said, but who cares. She thinks I’m smart and funny. That’s all that matters. This is really working out better than I planned! Hooray for Pete taking that mock swing at me and my spot-on Kirk-versus-the-Klingons. I’m on fire! With Taylor Swift blaring at hurtful decibels, we head for the double doors like we’ve known each other for years – all of us, and hit the pavement and walk farther up Wisconsin toward Woody’s.
“You know, this could turn out to be a really fun night.”
“Oh, sorry my dear, is, is turning out to be a fun night.”
She smiles slightly, more of a pained grin actually, the streetlight dancing on her purple dress, which I’m guessing is some sort of rayon or silk, maybe a microfiber of some sort – I’m afraid to ask.
“That’s better,” she looks up at me again.
I gotta watch it here. She has the kinda smile that makes male mortals say weird, strange things, and I have to remind myself that as good as I feel, the grain does in fact hamper your locution and thought processes. And buddy, I didn’t have to learn that in class. I’ve had plenty of empirical evidence in the ole memory vault for that one! Ah, another night in Georgetown. The Four Horseman ride again!
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