On our fourth date,

I bought beers and

ordered bacon-wrapped

hot dogs at the Orange County 

Fair for my succulent, corrupt,

scarred broad.

 

“So,” she said, taking a sip of beer.

“Do you believe in love at

first sight?”

 

I took a bite of the hot dog.

 

“I feel like that’s a very ambiguous

question,” I said.

 

“How so?”

 

“As a youngster, I used to think love

at first sight was plausible. You know, 

we just look into each other’s eyes and 

somehow know this is it. Then I got

stupider, and volunteered myself for 

chemical romances which led me down

A rabbit hole that if we swindle, exploit,

fiddle with the soul, then anything is possible.”

 

“I do think there’s that initial, undeniable

spark. I guess you could say I’ve had

many loves at first sight.”

 

I believed her. Wouldn’t be

surprised if she was the one who got 

dumped every single time. Gitty 

optimism is a sin. Heresy.

 

“How do you feel about us?” I asked.

 

“Not sure,” she admitted. “We might

be able to get there.”

 

“Cheers to not knowing,” I said, as we

clinked beers. 

 

As we chugged the rest of our beers, I had

an epiphany.

 

“You won’t find it with 

me,” I said.

 

“What do you mean?” she said.

 

“I’m not interested in a fantasy, 

it’s all a scam.”

 

“Really, you mean that?”

 

“Let’s face it, you’re a gitty

optimist and I’m a nutcase.”

 

“How could you say that!” she belched, 

as her lips trembled with fear.

 

“Sooner or later,” I said. “You’ll get

sick and tired of my superficial, 

saucy, savage ideas and

dump me like a sack

of feces.”

 

“So, this is it between us.”

 

I shrugged.

 

“Take me home.”

What a ploy, I thought.