One more dating story

So following all these assorted dating misadventures, I think I’ve finally hit the jackpot. I go to a singles mixer and find my perfect match. She’s gorgeous, she’s smart -- she’s even my age.

We meet for coffee a couple of times and things seem great. We’re both writers by profession, musicians by hobby, and have a lot of shared interests.

I notice that on the phone she has this weird speech pattern where she speeds up the first part of a sentence, then draws out the end of it. Like that sketch on SNL where the woman is always trying to top whatever the other person says. “I-have-a-coat-just-like tha-a-a-a-a-a-a-t. I-have-a-thousand coooaaaaats …. A-thousand-coats-just-like-that onnnnnnne. Yesyesyes-I-dooooooooo.

Quick, quick … slowwwwwww, slowwwwwww. Quick, quick ….slowwwww. It’s like doing the country two-step with a narcoleptic cheetah. I’m practically getting whiplash just listening to her. But I tell myself, it’s not a big thing. So she has a weird way of talking – so what? We all have our idiosyncrasies, right?

I can live with the odd speech patterns because, well, out of all the dates I’ve had, she’s by far the best-looking and she’s got a great body and she’s well-educated and not stuck up or nasty or a control freak. Yeah, the quick-slow talking is weird but it’s tolerable, I assure myself. Maybe she just gets nervous talking on the phone.

Then it happens. The deal-breaker. We go to a movie and as she sits down next to me she exhales in my general direction. I try to tell myself that horrific stench didn’t come from her mouth but deep down, the truth is slapping me in the face like a giant, stinking hand of decaying flesh holding a mitt-ful of feces.

I don’t know what the exact word is to describe her breath. OK, yes I do. The word is shit. Her breath smells like shit. And not in a good way. I stifle the urge to hurl and as soon as the movie is over, we go to a nearby bistro where I order the strongest martini I can find, just to blunt the sense memory. A few days later, Death Breath calls and dumps me over the phone, quick-quick slow. The reason: we don’t have anything in common. Well I can think of one thing I’m glad we don’t have in common. I’m simultaneously relieved and insulted but I get over it.