Chapter 15: Ophelia

Chapter 15: Ophelia

I had high hopes for my second ClikClak date.

I am an optimist, after all. I figured that the first colossal failure was a fluke, and the odds had to be in my favor for something better.

We went to Carmelina’s again, because it has good food, and I was impressed at how the staff took care of me. I was hopeful that I wouldn’t need that kind of support tonight.

Of course, that only lasts until the moment I feel my napkin slip off my lap, about six minutes after I sit down. As I bend down to retrieve it, something catches my eye. And that something would be my date’s unzipped pants and his penis sitting out on display.

I stand so fast that I’m instantly lightheaded. A hand reaches out to steady my elbow. I look. It’s the same manager from the last time I was here.

"Is everything okay, miss?"

I lean in and whisper, "The snake is out."

"Excuse me?"

"There’s a disco stick sighting."

"What?" The manager narrows his eyes, now clearly thinking I’m totally nuts.

In a loud clear voice, I nod toward my date and say, "He’s sitting there with his penis out, in the middle of our first date."

Every single pair of eyes in the restaurant swivels toward us. But perhaps I have lost it because I point wildly. "This is our first date and Mr. Happy is apparently joining us for a bite to eat."

My date slowly slides his napkin off the table and covers his member, who must have developed a sudden chill in the November night.

"I … I gotta go." I grab my purse and reach for my wallet to pay for the glass of wine I ordered.

The manager holds his hand up. "Don’t worry, this one’s on us. Oh, and wherever you’re meeting these guys, you need to find a new place."

I smile tightly and walk out, holding my head as high as I possibly can in such a situation.

Did I think my first ClikClak date went well? No. Did I think it was possible for my second one to be a failure of such epic proportions so quickly? Also no.

Once I take a long and humiliating T ride on the C line home, I open ClikClak.

So the second date was worse than the first, if you can believe it.

Involuntarily, tears begin to fill my eyes.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Why are men like this? All I know is I give up, and I won’t be going on any more dates. Please stop splicing and tagging me. I’m done.

Sundance comes over and headbutts me, a universal sign for "I agree, all men, besides me, suck, and you deserve so much better." Or, he just wants his ears scratched.

My phone dings. I don’t have the strength to analyze my latest laughingstock with Marley. It’s easy for her. She’s got a great boyfriend who worships the ground she walks on. I need a Jamal for myself.

Except it’s not Marley. It’s Xavier Henry, sending me another DM through Instagram.

Xavier: Saw the latest ClikClak. Sorry.

Me: You and me both.

Xavier: How was it worse? The first date seemed pretty bad, but now you seem traumatized. How dodgy was he?

I sigh.

Me: Can we FaceTime? I don’t want to have to commit this story to words just yet.

Xavier: Give me your number.

I type in my phone number and close Instagram. And then I wait.

A minute goes by. Then two. Then five.

I open Instagram and my digits are still the last message. He’s seen it. Shit, I’m even getting blown off virtually.

Screw it. I go to the bathroom. I’m just flushing when I hear my phone ringing. I quickly run my hands under water, not for the recommended two minutes, and sprint out to find my phone. Because my hands are sopping wet, and probably still have soap on them, the phone goes flying out of my grip. I make a lunging dive for it and manage to finally answer the FaceTime.

"You alright?" Xavier asks, his brow slightly furrowed. Gosh, I’d forgotten how attractive he is, and that he speaks with a British accent. It’s hot.

I’d also forgotten, in my haste to answer the phone, to think about my angle, and now this fine specimen of a man is getting a great view of my double chin, as well as my hair that seems to be rapidly escaping the messy bun I’d piled it into when I got home from my disastrous date.

Oh good God.

I sit up and tuck my chin in as fast as I can while simultaneously trying to smooth my hair. Needless to say, I’m not that coordinated. As a result, I’m not able to improve my appearance much.

"I will be someday. Maybe, in like fifty years, I’ll be able to laugh about the time I went on a date and bent over to retrieve my napkin only to find out that the guy I’ve known for all of ten minutes is sitting in a restaurant with his dick out."

I can’t believe I just said dick.

Also, I should have warned Xavier because he was taking a drink of something. I know this because it’s now all over his phone screen.

"Bollocks. Hang on." The image jostles as he puts his phone down and begins wiping it off. I take the opportunity to rip my hair out of the bun and finger comb it.

It’s a slight improvement.

"You’re joking, right?" Xavier is back, still wiping things up on his end. "Please tell me that was a well-timed joke with the intention of making me spit out my bevvy."

I can see that his eyes are a steel-gray blue and his jaw is the type of square that romance novelists comment on. He’s got a bit of facial hair—more than stubble, but not quite a beard. Whatever it’s called, it works for him.

"I wish I was." I sigh. "And they say chivalry is dead."

"Was he crackers?"

I tilt my head. "What do you mean?"

"Has he lost his mind?"

I shrug. "It would appear so. And since I’m oh for two on being set up with guys from ClikClak, I think I’m going to quit while I’m ahead. I’m done. I might even take my profile down."

"Ah, but you can’t let two dimwits ruin it for you. People like your content. You’re funny and real, and I think that’s what appeals to people on ClikClak. You know, as opposed to Instagram where you know everything is posed and filtered and fake."

I think about this. "True. Then how come you’re only on Instagram? Are you fake?"

Xavier smiles, showing bright white teeth that are perfectly straight. "No, Instagram is just easier. I don’t have anything really going on in my life to make videos of it."

"Wait—" I hold my hand up. "You’re, like, a professional athlete. That makes you an automatic celebrity."

"A celebrity’s the last thing I want to be. I’m here to play a game and that’s all."

"Surely that can’t be all. You don’t play soccer twenty-four seven. What do you do for fun?"

He looks pensive for a moment. "Well, training does take quite a bit of my time, and I value my sleep."

"Understandable. I value my sleep too."

"In my off-season, which is now, I usually visit my family back home. I was thinking about it, but I get nervous that with quarantines and travel restrictions and the like, I might get stuck over in England and not be able to get back. Plus, I’ve got some business dealings in the works, so I need to be here to attend to those."

Sundance takes this chance to walk across my body, essentially showing his back end to Xavier. Lovely. "Don’t mind that big oaf. It’s Sundance. Sunny for short. He thinks he runs this place." I lean forward and whisper into my phone. "Don’t tell him this, but he kind of does. Of course, I’ll deny ever saying that."

"Ah, yes, I know how it can be. My brother Philip and I adopted a pet when I was about five, and now he, along with my parents, run a rescue organization. So Solomon really did take over our house."

"That’s so cool!"

"Yes, but with COVID, they’ve had to shut down their tours and field trips. It’s really cut into their income and all."

"Oh." I don’t know what else to say. "That’s too bad. I’m sorry."

"Ah well, it’s the way things are, I guess. But I’m glad I can help them out. I mean, I can as long as I keep playing."

"Are you in danger of not playing anymore?"

Xavier sighs and he doesn’t have to even say it. Something’s up. Something’s wrong. "What is it?" I ask. "What’s going on with your career? Are you hurt?"

He shakes his head and looks off into the distance. I wish I knew what he was looking at. "It’s nothing."

"It’s not nothing. Look, you’ve been a nice guy, reaching out to me when you didn’t have to. I know you don’t know me from Adam, but other than my best friend Marley, you’re probably the person I talk to the most. Which is totally sad, I know, but that’s me. So tell me what ails you."

His gaze swivels back to the camera. "Alright, but I’m warning you now, it’s messed up."

"It can’t be any more messed up than Trent the Tosser or PenisGate, so lay it on me. I got you, boo."