A Case of the Nerves

Write about a first date in which the narrator gets a little too drunk. Thirty minute time limit.



“This,” I remember saying over the ringing in my ears, “is some damn fine pasta.”

Her smile was ironic, though at that point my eyes had drifted too low below the face that should have set off all sorts of social red-alerts. Needless to say I was little troubled by it.

“Damn fine. This marinara is fucking perfect. Is it really loud in here?”

It was really loud in there. I put a finger in my ear and wiggled it back and forth. It felt like my ear holes had shrunk, and all I could hear was the restaurant and that damn ringing.

I remember noticing the frown, and for a flickering instant wondering if maybe I had committed some faux pas. I sipped again at my wine and forgot.

It was a merlot, rich and strong, smacking of chocolate and some earthy spice that I couldn’t name. I frowned myself, mirroring her expression fairly closely. I had discovered the problem. Merlot with pasta?

“We should have ordered a white wine,” I said, though it felt as though I yelled it. I wondered if she could hear me over the buzz of the room.

She mumbled something then. I hadn’t imagined she’d be the mumbling type when I saw her, when I decided she was certainly worth summoning the courage to ask her out. But she was mumbling, and I had to piss. I said so, and I noticed a blush to her cheeks. Well, she wasn’t asian, but she was glowing. Maybe the wine was getting to her a little bit. She was acting very strangely.

I stood and began making my way to where the restroom aught to have been, kicking the table leg with force enough to tip over the small crystal vase. The single lush-lipped rose fell between the two empty bottles of wine. My hip rubbed the side of the smallish table, drawing the tablecloth into a crooked mess of wrinkles. I think water spilled.

I was impressed with myself. This was a damn nice place to bring a girl. Damn nice. The ambiance was subtly luxurious and soft with warm colors and dark wood. I think I might have said something along those lines. Diners, I thought to myself, deserve to understand what a treat they’re having tonight.

“Everything here is fucking gorgeous.”

The words came out as I reached the corner of the room, where instead of bathrooms I found more diners. Damn. I proceeded to follow the wall around the restaurant until it led me to the bathroom.


I remember realizing that I was shitfaced as I stood in front of the mirror, my collar crooked, a burgundy stain dribbling down my front. I didn’t have to stumble out of that appreciably clean and pleasant smelling bathroom to know that she had already left.


The Other Side