I hadn’t known her more than a week at the time, probably even less. She had off-handedly mentioned wanting to see the new Batman movie during one of our first conversations, one of those conspicuous drops that could either be just an informative fact or a subtle invitation.
I assumed it was the latter and asked her if she was free Thursday night in probably the most awkward fashion possible, after work in the stairwell of the medical center parking lot, as we both headed towards our cars. Hers was black and German. Mine is white and Japanese. There was great meaning in this fact, I just didn’t know it at the time.
I asked her if she knew how to get to the theatre, twice, as she was new to town and had told me a long-winded, rapid-fire story about—well, all of her stories were long-winded and rapid-fire, but anyway—how she got lost going to the bathroom in her apartment, or something equally improbably flaky. She assured me, yes, she knew how to get there, and would be there ready to go at the arranged time, see you in a bit.
30 minutes prior to the show, I arrived at the theatre and claimed the tickets.
15 minutes before the show, I called her just to make sure she got the directions okay, it can be tricky having to drive around the steakhouse and behind the hardware store to find the theater parking lot. No answer.
10 minutes before the show, I called again. No answer.
8 minutes before the show, I called again. No answer. Little did I know then that this would not be the last time that summer the scene would unfold thusly.
5 minutes. No answer.
Having given up at this point, I purchased a big bag of chocolate M&M’s—the biggest one available, incidentally; I was going to enjoy the movie with or without a date—and as I handed my ticket to the usher, my phone buzzed.
“Um, I’d forgotten where I put my car keys. I found them now. They were in my pants in the dryer,” said the girl who got lost trying to find her own apartment bathroom.
“How do you get to the theatre again?”
