How to End a Relationship on the First Date

a date that never actually happened but also absolutely happened in my mind

Photo: Title “How to End a Relationship on The First Date” with a photo of a bartender preparing a martini.

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It occurs to me suddenly when I see him take a sip of his dirty martini that I have no idea what the fuck is going on. 

You see the dirty martini is a trigger. For me, it is a trigger. I find it to be a fundamentally annoying drink that is scientifically proven (read: circumstantially and based solely on my personal experience) to be drunk by annoying people. 

And the man who drinks a martini on the first date? Ho ho hoooo. He is trying to say something really specific, isn’t he? He is trying to perform maturity or class, authority or wealth. In Hell’s Kitchen, a holier-than-thou bitchiness and if we’re south of 14th street, complete ambivalence. At the very least, the man on a first date with a martini shows me that he can drink at least 3 ounces of straight liquor without embarrassing himself. It also means that he drinks more than I do regularly which is maybe not a good thing? Aside from the fact that it makes me super anxious to be around people that are inebriated, after one drink of absolutely anything alcoholic,  I spend the rest of my evening calculating how much Tylenol and coconut water I will need to ingest to avoid a hangover. I have two extra-strength Tylenol in my back left pocket right now and I’ll take them immediately whenever he finally goes to the bathroom.

This specific guy wants to be seen as cool. I think. As easy-going. As super casual. As if all of this - the drink, the bar, the first date that wasn’t even predicated by sex as is customary in this app-centric world - is just a part of his regular flow. He wants me to believe this is all run-of-the-mill and benign for him. He spends $18.00 on a martini all the time. He probably isn’t even on the apps. This is all very chill for him. Chill chill.

I’m not buying it. I think he’s trying to be someone for me tonight instead of just being someone on this night. But figuring it out is tricky. There are contradictions in my assessment everywhere made unnecessarily complex because I am still not listening to whatever it is that he is yammering on about.

If I give him a chance, he might turn out to be a genuine guy. 

The martini is proof that it’s not all a complete performance. I know this isn’t the first time he’s ordered that drink because he does not make a show of it for me. He didn’t slyly make sure I caught the order by doing some dumb shit like asking for the vodka menu or doing a wine-like taste test after we sat down. He just ordered it and drank it like a normal medium person. And thank god because that also means he isn’t the cartoonish stereotype of a martini-snob aficionado connoisseur douche-nozzle™ who explains the grand complexity of their libation with judgment and disdain. Those guys are rare in real life and thank god for that because ‘cocktail consciousness’ is not a personality. My date is not that guy. He’s actually holding his glass by the cone which is a dead give away. If he were a true douche-nozzle, he’d know that the whole point of the stem is to avoid changing the drink’s temperature with body heat. Those that really care about their cocktails tend to drink them with precision while the rest of us lap from the trough. 

I worked in restaurants long enough to notice little atrocities like this everywhere I go and I hate myself for it.

So maybe he isn’t a complete monster…

But this man is drinking a dirty martini, too, which is a real fuckin’ hook in my cheek. Because the dirty thing makes it seem all fancy but I don’t care what kind of top-shelf liquor is in that glass, the olive juice they use at this bar is not worth it. It’s not bougie. It’s fuckin’ olive juice. From a jar. Of olives. And not like fancy olives from the fancy section of Gristedes or wherever the fuck. This is basically Clausen brand from the jar...but really it probably comes in a two-gallon white plastic bucket from a restaurant supplies distributor with warehousing in Queens.

And the bartender isn’t even one of those cool industry-committed bartenders that loves what he does. He doesn’t have a revelatory perspective on the communal consumption experience or solution to the many many (many) systemic injustices of the hospitality industry. He’s not writing for Eater or guesting on the judge’s panel of Top Chef. No, this guy has the face of someone who went to Columbia for grad school and doesn’t know shit about what he’s doing with his life. He’s just slinging beers because he hasn’t made it as an installation artist...yet. Oh god, it’s like looking into a mirror. 

So my date is drinking this grotesque dirty martini and telling me a story. I think it’s a story? I’m watching him move his mouth but instead of listening, I am thinking about how I’m not really listening to him and how I hate his dirty potato-based beverage. Whatever story he’s trying to tell is clearly not succeeding because I’m really not invested. He hasn’t brought me in as an audience. I don’t have a sense of the plot or the goal. It’s all just blah blah and martini and olives but there isn’t a real story here. And! The setting is wrong, the details - the fucking bartender - it’s all flimsy. All wrong. This isn’t the bar, that isn’t the drink, I’m not the guy. 

And then he sets his drink down and he’s not talking anymore. 

Oh shit. 

He’s not talking anymore. He’s just staring at me with a tiny tiny smile. He does have a nice tiny smile. Shit. He wants an answer. An affirmation? He wants encouragement or acknowledgment. What does he want? What is his face doing? It should be the stare of someone waiting for a response but wait. It isn’t. It’s the stare of someone who has finished a full-ass thought. He is complete in his communication and there is no question about the fact that he has said what he meant to say. He is not going to speak again. And he hasn’t asked me a question. I think. So it is my turn to speak. In any normal scenario, it is my turn. But I don’t know what to say because I haven’t been listening to this man. At all.

Ah! He is still staring at me. Do something…staring contest! I stare back. There is no way to get out of this with spoken words; it’s time for eye-talking.

I hold his gaze. A challenge. A game. Dates and games are good. Activities. One time this woman at my work said we should “gamify” things to get engagement.

His smile gets a little bigger. Fuck yes, it’s working. I nailed it.

I lean further into a silent but flirtatious ocular narration…‘you’re just so interesting that I am speechless. I’m charmed. I’m turned on. My eyes are blue. You don’t know what I’m thinking because you are distracted by my face.’

It’s working a little? We’re eye-flirting which is good but even this has a limited shelf-life and I’m going to have to use words eventually. 

OMG Clueless! When I was 8 years old, Alicia Silverstone taught me everything I know about dealing with men. “Anything you can do to draw attention to your mouth is good.” Brilliant. What uses a mouth? Talking! No. Not talking, I don’t know what to say and that’s how we got into this. What’s around here that I can put in my mouth? Is it too soon to try to pacify him with a blowie? We’re in public so probably not a great idea but the options are limited. What are the bathrooms like here?

I go to take a drink of my tequila soda and it is empty. Fuck.

“Would you like another drink?” he asks. 

“Oh. Sure yeah. Thanks”.

Mr. Martini goes to the bar.

Of course! Drinking a drink. Mouth stuff at a bar. For once, whatever childhood trauma caused my personality to freeze in 90’s pop-culture has actually paid off. I’m a genius. Cher Horowitz is a genius. Now, what did she say about getting out of bad dates? 

I google quotes from Clueless while he is at the bar until I and spot him talking to the bartender. He seems really nice. He’s patient and waiting calmly for the drinks to be made and that’s a small but good sign. I stop my Googles. I should focus. Drop-in. Be present. I haven’t given this a real shot. I wish I didn’t do that. It isn’t a nice quality. Perceptive and judgemental are not the same thing. I am going to work on that. Being aware but less judgemental. And present! I should be more present. Because I can spend a lot of time thinking and over-thinking the smallest-

Um. Excuse me? He is giggling with Bartenderman. 

They’re chatting, they’re very friendly. Interesting development. I was right. This must be his place or something. This is like his cool low-key but really high-key hole-in-the-wall spot where he has his martiiiinis. I guess that means he lives nearby? Or works nearby? Maybe he has money. 

Bartenderman touches. his. face.

Okay, that’s odd. But maybe they’re friends. They’re not really flirting. He wouldn’t pick up a random dude while he’s out with me. That would be pretty fucked. No not real flirting. Unless he knows that I have been totally checked out. He could know. What was my face doing this whole time? Was I feigning interest at least? Surely after 4 years of acting school in the mid-2000s, I was trained well enough to improv some active-listening on a bad date. 

He doesn’t know. He wouldn’t offer another drink if that were the case. So yeah no. That’s just his good Judy. They know each other already and it’s no biggie. I mean face-touching the patrons while you’re on the clock is pretty gnarly but they’re just being peeps. It’s all good. Cute cute. Bartenderman needs to go wash his big hairy hands but I’m not upset with my date just for being friendly with a hot bartender. 

Okay, suddenly Bartenderman is super hot. Was he hot before? Is it a different bartender from earlier? No, it’s the same guy. He looks familiar a little but I can’t quite- he is hotter than me for sure. Fuck. Shit. Fuckshit.

Hey, date! Look at me, not Bartenderman! Come on.

They’re over there chitting and chatting away. He’s pouring my tequila. I’m not upset. It’s our first date; that would be out of line. It is super rude of him not to have told me they know each other though. Now I feel like I’ve been under the microscope for an hour. Bartenderman was probably watching me not listen and this exchange I’m seeing between the two of them is like the spy giving a status update to HQ. 

You know what, it’s New York and it’s gays...honestly they could have just met.

He sits back down with his vodka soda and gives me my tequila soda.

“Thanks.”

This guy seems nice. He has that nice tiny smile and, though I don’t know what about, he does speak. That’s good. Some guys don’t speak at all and it’s impossible to know what they’re thinking. The speaking and the smiling, those are not bad qualities. So I take the reins and finally do some talking myself. I know exactly what to say.

“Know the bartender?” And he’s like “Oh yeah. We’ve had sex a few times.” 

And you know what? At that moment, Mr. Douche-nozzle martini von olive face becomes the second coming of Prince Charming. Suddenly I am not only interested but this is the single most important date I’ve ever been on and my sole goal in the world is to trap this man into admitting that he loves me and only me and aside from me he doesn’t even know that sex or love or other penises exists. Casual hot bartender side-piece fuck buddies are now a thing of his past because he will want for nothing outside of our relationship.

It’s time to really work my magic.

What is his name? 

I think I have self-esteem issues. Fuck.

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