it’s a messy job; the dry cleaning bill alone just wouldn’t make sense,” I paused for a second. “You know, this is an equal opportunity world. Should I be worried? There have been more documented cases of female serial killers.”
“I like to surprise my dates,” she said with a mischievous smile.
“So,” I said, my arms outstretched indicating my home, “What do you think.”
Safia took a couple of seconds to look around. “It’s very tidy. You are into women, aren’t you?”
“Last I checked.”
“Let’s see,” she said as she picked up a pile of magazines on my coffee table. “ Vanity Fair, Rolling Stone, The Economist , I’m impressed.”
“That one’s more decorative,” I said pointing to The Economist , “makes me look smart.”
“And a bunch of history magazines, nothing to worry about there,” she said as she put them back down on the coffee table.
“Oh dear,” I said, looking at the coffee table. She looked at me puzzled.
“The magazines,” I said.
She looked down at them, then back at me.
“They’re, for lack of a better word, askew.”
“Askew?”
“Messed up,” I continued. I got up off my chair and straightened out the magazines on the coffee table as she watched. “You see, now they’re neat and tidy, the way I like them.”
“Really? That’s interesting,” she said.
“I’m sorry; it’s just a pet peeve of mine. I can’t stand it if I go someplace and there’s a stack of magazines or books and they’re all askew. It just doesn’t look right.”
“So you straighten them out.”
“I do,” I said.
I don’t know if a second date is the time for revealing one’s unique idiosyncrasies, but I figured, what the hell, I might as well put it out there.
“It’s a pet peeve of mine,” I continued.
“So,” she said, “If I were to just mess them up a little, you couldn’t stand it. You’d have to straighten them up again?”
“Definitely.”
“What if I said, let’s skip dinner and go into the bedroom and make passionate love to one another, all night, just as long as you let me mess them up, make them askew, as it were? Could you do that, knowing what was happening down here on the coffee table?”
I took a moment to think about that.
“I’m afraid, if passionate sex was what you were looking for, I couldn’t give you that, knowing that down here the magazines on my coffee table were all messed up. I’m afraid I’d have to say no to that.”
Safia laughed.
“Interesting,” she said. “Any other pet peeves I should be aware of?”
“Let’s see,” I replied. “Well there is one thing. You know when you go to the book store and you buy a remaindered hardcover, it usually has a big round sticker on the front of it?”
She nodded her head, “Yes.”
“I can’t stand it when people don’t peel that sticker off the book; they just leave it on. That drives me crazy.”
“Because you don’t like stickers?” she asked, somewhat mockingly.
“There could be that,” I conceded, “but it just doesn’t look right and it’s not fair to the book.”
This prompted a curious look.
“Think about it,” I continued. “At one point in time that hardcover book was worth thirty, forty or fifty bucks. It sat majestically on the book store shelf waiting to be read, to be chosen and it wasn’t. Now it’s been relegated to a table with a bunch of other misfit books that failed to sale, and it now features prominently on its countenance a vile sticker advertising it for five or six ninety-nine, a mere fraction of its once glorious price. That sticker is the equivalent of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter . You know the book in which a woman is forced to prominently wear a large letter ‘A’ on her dress to indicate to one and all she is an adulterer?”
Safia nodded, “Yes.”
“Well that sticker is the scarlet sticker, mocking that book and its past glory; its failure to find a reader in its glory days. The
“I like to surprise my dates,” she said with a mischievous smile.
“So,” I said, my arms outstretched indicating my home, “What do you think.”
Safia took a couple of seconds to look around. “It’s very tidy. You are into women, aren’t you?”
“Last I checked.”
“Let’s see,” she said as she picked up a pile of magazines on my coffee table. “ Vanity Fair, Rolling Stone, The Economist , I’m impressed.”
“That one’s more decorative,” I said pointing to The Economist , “makes me look smart.”
“And a bunch of history magazines, nothing to worry about there,” she said as she put them back down on the coffee table.
“Oh dear,” I said, looking at the coffee table. She looked at me puzzled.
“The magazines,” I said.
She looked down at them, then back at me.
“They’re, for lack of a better word, askew.”
“Askew?”
“Messed up,” I continued. I got up off my chair and straightened out the magazines on the coffee table as she watched. “You see, now they’re neat and tidy, the way I like them.”
“Really? That’s interesting,” she said.
“I’m sorry; it’s just a pet peeve of mine. I can’t stand it if I go someplace and there’s a stack of magazines or books and they’re all askew. It just doesn’t look right.”
“So you straighten them out.”
“I do,” I said.
I don’t know if a second date is the time for revealing one’s unique idiosyncrasies, but I figured, what the hell, I might as well put it out there.
“It’s a pet peeve of mine,” I continued.
“So,” she said, “If I were to just mess them up a little, you couldn’t stand it. You’d have to straighten them up again?”
“Definitely.”
“What if I said, let’s skip dinner and go into the bedroom and make passionate love to one another, all night, just as long as you let me mess them up, make them askew, as it were? Could you do that, knowing what was happening down here on the coffee table?”
I took a moment to think about that.
“I’m afraid, if passionate sex was what you were looking for, I couldn’t give you that, knowing that down here the magazines on my coffee table were all messed up. I’m afraid I’d have to say no to that.”
Safia laughed.
“Interesting,” she said. “Any other pet peeves I should be aware of?”
“Let’s see,” I replied. “Well there is one thing. You know when you go to the book store and you buy a remaindered hardcover, it usually has a big round sticker on the front of it?”
She nodded her head, “Yes.”
“I can’t stand it when people don’t peel that sticker off the book; they just leave it on. That drives me crazy.”
“Because you don’t like stickers?” she asked, somewhat mockingly.
“There could be that,” I conceded, “but it just doesn’t look right and it’s not fair to the book.”
This prompted a curious look.
“Think about it,” I continued. “At one point in time that hardcover book was worth thirty, forty or fifty bucks. It sat majestically on the book store shelf waiting to be read, to be chosen and it wasn’t. Now it’s been relegated to a table with a bunch of other misfit books that failed to sale, and it now features prominently on its countenance a vile sticker advertising it for five or six ninety-nine, a mere fraction of its once glorious price. That sticker is the equivalent of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter . You know the book in which a woman is forced to prominently wear a large letter ‘A’ on her dress to indicate to one and all she is an adulterer?”
Safia nodded, “Yes.”
“Well that sticker is the scarlet sticker, mocking that book and its past glory; its failure to find a reader in its glory days. The
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