The Date to End All Dates

Desiree Holman, Breath Holes

My date arrived at my door early Saturday morning. He arrived dripping wet, having just swam across the Pacific to reach my door. I handed him a towel, and he, in return, handed me an orchid. No ordinary orchid, this orchid flowered only once, took twenty years to mature, and bloomed for exactly twenty seconds. Let's just say, his timing was impeccable!

We watched as the precious flower bloomed and then withered and then produced an intolerable smell. Without batting an eye, or in this case, his long lustrous lashes which, he assures me, he has never tinted nor curled, he tossed the once-precious orchid over his shoulder. Toweling himself off, he waltzed through my doors, and caught me unawares as he grabbed me by the waist to a 4/4 polka. I nearly slammed the door in the face of the German polka band that trooped in behind him. Stepping on his toes—and those of all seven members of the band—he gratiously allowed me to sit out on the 5th polka. But, oh, they were a lively bunch! And dancing together in my small New York-style studio, they sure lifted my spirits—even as they knocked over my dead grandmother's Hummel figurines bequeathed to me on her deathbed.

The polka band took a rest on my fold-out sofa bed—politely taking their shoes off as per my request—and my date preceeded to the kitchen where he had plans to wow me with the culinary secrets of his Armenian-Mexican ancestors. Again his elaborate preparations, the three crates of cooking utensils, and the bags and bags of groceries—along with the sudden appearance of his ninety-year old Armenian grandmother—impressed me greatly. After an hour or so, he took time out from the rolling of the grape leaves and the crushing pomegranategranite seeds, to court me in the bathroom—now the only room in my apartment in which there was enough room for us to sit. Delicately taking my foot into his hands—and dextorously maneovering around the toilet bowl—he gave me the most exuisite foot massage of my life! Too bad when the accordian player swung open the door to use the bathroom, he gave my date a concussion which forced him to lay low for a bit.

While the rest of us ate and his grandmother told the most entertaining dirty limericks—albeit in another language—my date reposed in the bath tub. By midnight, we thought we ought to check in on him...