Word count: 916 words.

I'd never done this speed dating thing before. But when push comes to shove and you're the only one in your friend circle left single . . . you take what you get. At least you do if you're me.

Anyway, Robbie told me speed dating was all the rage these days. Robbie likes to keep well-informed about fads — just don't ask her who the state senator is or it won't be pretty.

So far as I understood it, speed dating is basically live Tinder. If you don't know what Tinder is . . . good for you!

I've had some seriously horrible experiences using that app. One time my date — whose online profile flaunted a hotter version of Bettie Davis (she was the Jennifer Lawrence of my generation) — showed up wearing shit on her forehead when we met for real.

Shit. On. Her. Forehead.

I sat through the entire date failing to draw attention to the elephant(-shit) in the room. What's worse is she already had a boyfriend, and was just looking for another guy so they could have a threesome.

Had she been half as attractive as Bette Davis, I would maybe have considered the offer.

The length people go to these days . . . especially when they're in their thirties and about as attractive as mud caked on boot.

In other words, people like me.

I tossed my car keys over to the valet, a handsome man in a red-white uniform. Looked about the same age as me, actually. "Sweet ride," he whistled.

I smiled. It's always nice when people appreciate your tastes — I'm really into books and cars especially. I even have a name for my car: Mrs. Smokey. Lame, I know, but I like it. Feels vintage.

"Hope she's safe in your hands," I said to the valet, and took a deep breath, and stepped into the world of speed-dating.

Moments later I was sitting on a plastic chair, a name-tag saying

"Jack :)"

stapled to my suit, the first victim of my singular charm seated right opposite me.

She was a pretty blonde in maybe her late-twenties with an "I was my highschool cheerleader so make way for me bitches" air about her. Her name-tag read Rachel but in my head I just called her "the blonde".

Side-note: I think these name-tags are frankly insulting. We are humans, not rats, to be labelled. Whatever happened to good old-fashioned "What's your good name?" "Mine's Jack, what's yours?"

If there was any chance I'd drive Rachel home with me that night, I blew it by saying: "So, you like reading?"

The next five minutes were torture, but we pushed through. And then I shifted chairs to sit opposite another girl, not so pretty as the blonde but much more homely and mature looking, if you know what I mean.

Turns out, she wasn't so homely. And she had about the maturity of a really horny teaspoon. "You got a big one, Jack?" was the first question she asked me, after which I had to plod through another five minutes wishing I were back on my couch eating popcorn and crying over fictional characters.

My third victim: a gum-chewing girl who looked very much like a younger version of Robbie.

"How . . . how old are you, exactly?" I said to her.

"Fifteen," she replied in a monotone.

"Who let you in here? You're underage! She's underage!"

Everyone else swivelled their heads to look at me like I were a loon. My teen "date" rolled her eyes.

A man who looked older even than me took her home at the end of the night. I hope he bought her ice-cream and that was that, but I doubt it.

I walked out the realm of speed dating just the way I'd entered it: alone.

The valet in red-and-white brought Mrs. Smokey around, patting her hood appreciatively. "Man, the interiors don't disappoint either," he remarked.

"Yeah," I said dully.

The valet stepped out of the car, a measured expression on his face. "No luck tonight . . . Jack?"

I realized I was still wearing the bloody name-tag and tore it off my chest. "Different days," I grumbled.

The valet nodded, shoved a thumb at Mrs. Smokey the car. "You should just ride around Manhattan in her, man. Chicks would dig that."

I chuckled. "Robbie — uh, a friend of mine — she says I should just sell her. Says standing next to her makes me look like a grandpa."

"Please tell me you're not gonna!" The valet sounded positively aghast.

"I won't. Screw them."

"Who's them?"

"You know." I pointed at Rachel the blonde, making love by a battered old Ford with a man whose jaw seemed to have been chiseled by Zeus himself. "Them."

The valet laughed. "They're like Scrooges. Can't appreciate the spirit of Xmas."

"Dickensian metaphors," I said, nodding approvingly. "Always appropriate."

"He was ahead of his time," said the valet.

"He was," I agreed. "Your good name?"

"Ryan," said the valet, extending an arm. "Ryan's the name."

I took his hand. "You already know mine."

Ryan the handsome valet shrugged.

I knew then that I loved him. That shrug sealed it for me. I don't know. I guess love happens as and when it wants to happen, with no logical why or how to back it up.

I looked at him, then at Mrs. Smokey, then back at him. "When does your shift end, Ryan? Maybe we could go for a ride, discuss some Dickens."

I just wrote this on a whim, but I guess that's what discovery writing is: writing on a whim.

How'd you like it [that is, if you liked it☠️]?