The Knight's Crazy

Part 1 - Titanic the Sequel

When the guy across the table from you opens with, "So, this might sound stalkerish," you know your date's going down like the Titanic. Only with no life boats. No survivors. And nothing even remotely resembling romance- not even of the stupidly tragic variety.

I shouldn't be surprised, certainly not as much as I am. After all, I'm undateable.

Or, well, I should say undate-Two-able.

I've lost count of the number of date-Ones I've been on, but never have I ever, in my entire life, gone on a second date.

My mother says it's because my standards are too high. My bestie, Georgia Collins- tall, blond, and the perfect image of Queen B-yatch in everything but personality- says it's because my standards are too low. As I only share date details with one of them, and it certainly isn't my mother, I'm more inclined to believe George.

I have an optimist's hope, but a pessimist's expectations, so I was really hoping the date would go well. I just wasn't completely shocked that it didn't.

"Call me, " he says as we part ways that evening.

I smile, give a noncommittal nod/shrug/weird-scrunch-of-my-nose, and bail like I have Cerberus on my tail and a couple of prime ribs stapled to my ass. Not freaking likely.

What a waste of a nice outfit- black slacks, silk amethyst blouse, I even wore that multi strand necklace that's so heavy it makes my neck sore in under an hour. At least I had the foresight to wear flats for that disaster. Still, I'd curled my hair. My thick brown hair does not take to curls well, but I'd done it.

All such a waste.

I dig through my purse like I'm dying and call on my metaphorical rock of sanity. My phone doesn't even complete the first ring before George picks up- she doesn't bother with formalities, not even a hello. "And?"

"And, what?" I can tell I'm pouting from the tone of my voice, and so can she.

"Really, Rebeca? Really?" It's the tone, not the failed date, she's scolding. Georgia is all sympathy until I hit the realm of self-pity, at which point she tells me to put on my big-girl panties and get over myself. Sometimes in much less friendly terms, depending on the time of month.

I allow a few more moments of silent pouting before I do indeed get over myself, taking in a deep breath of the humid evening air. And promptly choking on it. Asthma and humidity are not exactly soul mates.

When I can breathe again without feeling like my chest is going to shred itself whilst simultaneously trying to crawl up my throat, I give her a brief summery of Titanic, The Sequel. She laughs. Loudly.

I take back the thing I said about her personality.

I'm not one of those girls with completely unrealistic expectations for the male side of humanity. The Prince Charming is more often than not acting- or insane. I don't want a Prince Charming.

What I would like is someone relatively stable, smart enough to sometimes beat me at chess, funny enough -or strange enough- to get my humor and make me laugh, and communicative enough that I don't feel like I'm trying to carry on a conversation with a rock. I wouldn't object to him being good-looking, or to him worshiping the ground that I walk on, but those are negotiable.

George understands this- that doesn't stop her from laughing at my misery. It's one of the many ways she shows her love. I'm fairly positive that, if I was truly suffering from emotional agony, she would be supportive instead of entertained.

We exchange some more banter before she goes to bed, and I resign myself to the long walk home.