Ms Inscrutability

Last night was my much anticipated date with Ms Anonymous.

Some of you might have realized that there has a spate of sarcastic comments in some of my recent entries. As such, I laid down the gauntlet for her to come clean and reveal all. To which she did. She has her reasons for staying anonymous, and I can understand why. Nevertheless, I got a taste of my own medicine. In a much milder form of course.

She ruined my plans quite a bit. Come to think of it, it might have been part of her game plan. Females are sneaky little things. Ever heard of the saying “The more you plan your life, the harder destiny hits”. I conclude that in the event I snag another date, I’m not going to plan it but rather, play the fool. Reverse psychology works sometimes. UNLESS I by some stroke of uncanny providence, set myself up with Mischa Barton. Then that’s a completely different story.

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Let’s call Ms Anonymous A. It would be rude to continually call her anonymous.

The initial game plan was dinner followed by coffee. I’m normally reluctant to go for anything else. As it turned out, she had an ‘important’ dinner appointment so my plans went up in smoke. POOF!! But considering her social status, it might have been rather excusable I guess, so I played the man and told her to take her time.

By the time we met, it was 10 o’clock. I was well miffed because she turned out to be a dazzling sight, glowing with youthful ardour and all. A’s Eurasian, sort of. She’s a human mongrel, a mish mash of Indian, British, Portuguese and what not. I am pure breed golden blood, chinkass all over. *gloat*

“You must be Jon. Nice to meet you.” (Offers me a handshake)
“You are late.” (Acute stare. Shakes her hand firmly)

I dated quite enough personalities to know that you should never let yourself be intimidated. (erm… Mischa Barton is another thing okay). I don’t think A was shocked, but she might have been a little taken aback. I’m not about to smile on unpunctuality. I dislike it.

After that we headed to IndoChine at Wisma. Seclusion was best I guess. Neither of us should embarrass ourselves. I refrained from making any comments about her appearance. Deep down of course, she is a very stunning woman I admit. But I keep her ego down first. Save it for later, in case I slip and slur her. Well, I should be very glad that I had no need for the “You look great tonight” sentence. Other than being very cliché, she’d probably be like “Duh, you mutt” or “ya la ya la”. Stereotype is bad. If you need to go into raptures so desperately, at least make it interesting, like “Wow, you’ve got really nice boobs and good taste in lingerie”. Alright, that didn’t really come out right. You should spend time polishing up your pick ups. Unless it’s a winning formula, don’t reuse.

Back to the date, we had a rather pleasant time. It wasn’t invigorating or anything. We just sat around and talked about life in general. Work, weather you know, the mundane things. A little too much small talk I reckon. I gathered she’s a pretty intelligent individual with a strong sense of aspiration. I have always liked that in women. It’s such an attractive quality, don’t you think?

Inevitably, being 20-somethings we crash head-on into the topic of relationships. I didn’t want to say too much as I don’t her that well, but she certainly seems comfortable yakking about hers. I thought: with her bombshell-like deportment, this vixen would never run out of stories. I was right. Almost too correct. It got stale after a while.

Just as I was about to hit the sack, A lapsed into a little-puppy-pity-me-please mode. Apparently, she had a sonofabitch man who hit her on more than one occasion. This kinda fired me up. No, I mean my back. Suddenly, I am reminded how much the wound hurts. Abusive men with naberous behaviour are vile, loathsome, despicable shit piles. I try hard to make her feel better by listening. When it becomes obvious that she seeks my opinion, I tell that her men like that, are just not worth it.

“Aye, A, you know what?”
“Ya Jon?”
“That man is a dickhead-fuckface-cocksucking-motherfucking-asshole-dirty-twat-waste-of-semen-hope-you-die kind of person.”
“WHAT?!?!”

Dear all, I apologise for the string of expletives, but they must really be said in a single breath you see, splitting them up isn’t the way to do it. Try it. Say it in a breath.

A tries and finally she gets the hang of it. She’s laughing so hard by now I’m afraid she might choke over her bubbly. Instead she sidles over to my side and leans on my shoulder mumbling something. Don’t know what she said but it must be good because she then placed her head on my chest and said nothing. I wasn’t exactly in 7th heaven, but I wasn’t a sad man either.

I brought her home some time later, it was 3 in the morning and I was tired.

A: “When shall we meet again?”
J: (surprised initially) “When the hurly-burly’s done, when the battle’s lost and won.”
A: “Haha, you wanna play Macbeth with me.”
J: “Not tonight, dearest chuck. You’ll win me hands down. Let me read up first.”
A: “Nooooo,,, I’ll beat you anyway.”
J: “Yes, yes you shall. Even you can’t, I’ll let you.”
A: *pouts playfully*

All in all, we had a satisfying time. Before she headed for the door she gave me a warm hug and a peck on the cheek. I smiled and kissed her forehead, watching her flit into the engulfing darkness of her apartment with all her womanly grace and poise.