Cute Guy Tim

This morning he casually mentioned he had an extra ticket to an art gallery opening; I think I accepted before he’d even asked me. Finally, I was getting my chance with Cute Guy Tim. I paired my name with his and twirled it around in my mind...Tim and Shelly. It had a beautiful ring to it.

We planned to meet at the gallery, but he texted asking if I could come to his apartment; he was running late – something about a problem with one of his pets. “Animal lover” – definitely on my future husband list.

Approaching his apartment door, I could hear his frustrated voice begging Rocky to settle down. Picturing a rowdy bulldog needing a little attention from his best friend made me smile. The ringing doorbell brought immediate silence to the scene inside. Cute Guy Tim was straightening his sandy brown, mussed hair as he gestured for me to come in. Before I could even register how innocent this made him look, something fell on my head. “Fell” is what I thought at the time, but it was more of a dive bomb. Rocky wasn’t a dog at all. He was one of four birds that had free reign of Tim’s apartment. Apparently, there had been a scuffle between Rocky and Adrian with Apollo squawking bird words of encouragement. To add to the show, Paulie was having digestion problems – all over the curtains. I guess Paulie didn’t like the crackers.

I learned that Tim doesn’t believe in caging animals; he thinks it’s cruel to keep them in captivity. Surprisingly, I kept my mouth shut; not pointing out an apartment in Seattle wasn’t their natural habitat. It might have been the fact that I was already trying to swallow my normal speech about how much I hate birds. It’s to the extent that when I get that white picket fence dream, I’ll get a cat just to make sure birds don’t invade my paradise.

“Did he poop on you?”

Not a good first line for a date, Tim.

“I don’t think so, but do birds get rabies shots? I think it bit my head.”

Leaving, I made the mistake of thinking the very wrong thought of “Well, it can only get better from here”.

On the way to the art gallery, Tim made an attempt at chit chat. I don’t remember most of it because I was googling ‘tetanus by birds’ on my Iphone. In retrospect, I do seem to remember the words: freedom, open-minded, inner-self. My mouth was on autopilot so I said things like: sure, uh-huh, you betcha. Note to self: Pay attention to conversations on first dates even if you’re bleeding from the head.

“Is this a joke?” That was all I could say as I read the flyer on the gallery door: Evolution of Sexual Toys and Fetishes.

Tim flirtatiously grabbed my arm and led me in while he laughed at what he assumed was fake shock. Again, don’t get me wrong. I’m not a prude. This is the kind of place I could have a blast at. My sarcastic humor would know no bounds; I would have people of all ages cracking up. Well, maybe not ALL ages. But I must remind you: THIS IS A FIRST DATE! Tim didn’t seem so cute anymore. I was beginning to wonder if this was a way for him to tell me he had a bird fetish. Well, I can damn well guarantee you; I ain’t taping any feathers on my body.

Thankfully, going through the gallery is just a blur in my mind. I do recall thinking of new names for Tim. Creepy Bird Guy. Satan. Doesn’t Get Out Enough Guy. And then once I had the thought that I must be being pranked, but I didn’t dare look up to see if there were cameras because we were in the ‘Personal Pleasure’ part of the exhibit.

Honestly, I was semi-okay until he brought out the picture of his grandmother. Oh, she looked nice enough. Every hair was in place, makeup tastefully done, a serene look on her face that spoke of wisdom gained throughout the years. The problem was that it was taken at her funeral. Sure, I get it --- it can be a monumental event. I’d even understand if it was the anniversary of her death. The creepy feeling would still traverse through my veins, but I’d nod and go with it. But, come on! This is a first date. How am I suppose to respond to a memorial of a dead woman I’ve never met that happens to be the grandmother to a guy I’m pretty sure I’ll never go out with again?

“It’s nice how they matched the lining of the coffin to her dress,” I stuttered with a forced hint of a fake smile while I cased the coffee shop for all available "emergency" exits.

“That was my idea!”

So apparently, we are excited about the attention to detail at funerals. Not something on my “must have” list of qualities for the future father of my children. I may seem cold, but for the past hour and half - oh my God! Only an hour and a half -, it’s been one surprise after another. This from a man I’ve flirted with for a month while getting the morning coffee. Heck, I’ve gotten up on days I didn’t have work, just so we could continue the charade of small talk, shy smiles, and “accidentally” bumping into each other. Truth be told, I don’t even like coffee. But . . . I liked Cute Guy at the Coffee Shop. That’s what I named him. At the time it seemed more intriguing than just ‘Tim’

Now, here we sit at the place of our first meeting, sipping coffee, looking at pictures of his deceased, though well-preserved, grandmother. And this is where it happened. I lost the ability to have an unexpressed thought.

“Tim, I gotta tell you somethin’. I believe if you combined Jeffrey Dahmer’s DNA with Charles Manson’s, it would create a less creepy guy than you.”

“OMG! I love those guys!”

Thud! My head hit the table as I prayed to lose consciousness.