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The Date From Hell
I met Dana at a party in Venice Beach. She reached for a portabella mushroom sandwich while I grabbed a cheeseburger. Our arms touched and she smiled.
“You don’t smell like a beef eater,” she said.
“I’ll bite. What does a beef eater smell like?”
“Musky,” she said with a mischievous laugh.
I should have recognized the B-movie repartee as a harbinger of doom. But she was attractive and I was lonely and my pheromones were flowing.
“I’m Dana,” she said leaning forward for a European cheek kiss that threw me off guard. “Who do you know here?”
“The hostess,” I said. “Lynn and I used to date.”
“Wait a minute. Are you…him?”
She wielded the pronoun like a nunchuck.
“That makes me sound like a Stephen King character,” I said.
“Lynn and I do yoga together. She tells me everything.” She pressed her finger into my chest over my heart. My face drooped as if palsied. The breakup with Lynn was still fresh and painful.
A few party goers launched into a backyard drum circle. Dana took my hand and led me into the group. She reached for a bongo and gave me a tabla. She had no rhythm but pounded the drum with fervor. I was smitten. Afterwards, we grabbed a beer and sat on a…
