Her name was Cindy and we went to the Cherry Creek Grill. She told me about her great-grandfather who used to own Miami Beach but then lost it in the depression (the country's, not his own--that came later). We looked into each other's eyes and didn't like what we saw, but there was still an hour or so left on the clock to kill so we had to keep fighting. After an indifferent meal, we walked around trying to find an ice cream place, with no luck. A cautionary old couple somehow knew what we were doing (we were that patently pathetic) and told us all the ice cream shops in the area had gone out of business. What, no iced cream?!?! What is wrong with everyone? What is wrong with AMERICA? (Leave your comments below.) It was like a post-apocalyptic ice-creamless hellscape. Fresh out of ideas, we tramped over to the mall to look at stuff, and then grandpa (me) announced that he was tired and we called it a night blessedly. That's right, folks, I'm a PLAYA.
My pre-date jitters were minor, but led me to wax nostalgic about my jitters on previous occasions. Here's a cartoon from 1986-ish when we (grandpa) managed to ask out male Molly Ringwald impersonators (it was a wild, wild time) and refute Nietzschean eschatology all in the same night--somehow without the internet!
Which inevitably led to an evening of this. QED.