And I'll start by saying there's a reason they don't call it "GreatCupid!"
Perhaps I should've seen the most memorable date coming. The signs were all there. On our first date, she had four drinks -- a lot for me on a weeknight, and certainly stumble-worthy for a fairly petite lady. (Here, I'd planned a meet-up at a grilled cheese spot, but she wanted the sauce.)
Date two comes around -- and, as a boost to my ego, the invitation comes before the end of even the first date. She says two magic words: "open bar" (admittedly, less compelling than my two favorite words, "free dessert," but I'll take what I can get). So we go to this party her employer is throwing that happens to include all the vodka you can pour down your gullet.
I suppose I should've asked if her plan was to bankrupt the bar, but she ordered drinks two at a time (one mixed and one shot). I was taken aback. A note to the ladies out there: ordering a ton of drinks at a bar isn't necessarily your most attractive trait to exhibit on a date; it isn't a deal-breaker, but it also doesn't inspire confidence in the potential longevity of the relationship.
After four rounds, and eight drinks, she was ready to go home. I was relieved.
I figured, hey: I'll walk her to the BART stop and maybe, if the timing is right, try for a kiss.
Oh, if only. My social engineering plans ran awry. She tripped, she fell and, eventually, she passed out on the street.
This, for me, was the twist. I found myself thrilled that I live in a large house full of wonderful girls (read: reliable witnesses for the defense), so I could offer her my couch.
So I warned my roommates; called my best character reference to assure her that it'd be a very safe night on the couch; and drove home.
After causing some ruckus, she woke up the next morning, before I did, and left my life with only a text: "I left my hat at your house."
True, but people drink to forget, so I'm sure she won't miss it much.
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