Did you know there is a country bar on the Upper West Side? I was not aware of this, but my first date with a new guy starts off at Yogi's.
Nothing says "this is not a classy joint" better than having the bartenders flash the patrons within a few minutes of being there.
"Do you want to get out of here?" asks David, looking nervous as all hell. He insists to me over and over again that this place is not as bad as it seems.
"Sure", I answer, and we head uptown to a wine bar (where I get to show off my recent wine snobbery), and chill there until it closes, then head across the street to the jazz bar and stay there until it closes.
The setting was perfect for a romantic first kiss. It was misting out, he had lent me his suit jacket because I was cold, and it was Manhattan. He asked me, ever so politely, if he could kiss me. He did, and we spent the next hour kissing (I say kissing instead of making out because there was no groping involved).
The the strangest thing happens.
David tells me he has to get up early for work, and as nice as this is, he's going to have to go home. So, as we walk to get me a cab he suddenly falls on the ground, hitting his head on the window of the jazz club (and breaking it). He then looks at me (who knows how absolutely horrified I looked) and says, "How did I get down here?"
A bottle of water and some saltines later I learn that he didn't eat anything before we met up. As we say goodnight (he lets me keep his coat as a way to get a second date out of me), he says "Well, this will either make a really funny story one day, or a really funny story one day".
I come home feeling odd and mildly confused.