Too many women just won't do.

They're too simple. or
They're too complicated. or
They're too serious. or
They're too easy.
They have bad taste. or
They have awful taste. or
They have histories. or
They have issues.
They're not attractive enough. or
They're obsessive. or
They're ineffectual. or
They're desperate.


And then there was Sarah, who was none of this
and everything else.


We met in the sharpest spur of the moment, the kind of moment people look back upon and smile, raising toasts with glasses of Spumante on their 50th anniversary. It was kamikaze, a devastating sneak attack at that time so often referenced... when you least expect it.

I was fucking oblivious; sitting on the subway, nose tucked into the sports page (as it usually is). She sat two rows behind me-- on her way home from the library, I would find out later. I had seen her when she first got on, watched very closely as she walked through the double automatic doors, past me, to her seat. She was gorgeous, the kind of girl you only feel comfortable making eye contact with once, savoring the image, before sneaking that last minute peripheral glance once you're convinced she won't notice. My mind, simple as it is, retorted something no more sophisticated than "wow, she's hot" before returning to the irrelevancy of box scores and recaps.

When the subway stopped at 12th, I was surprised to see a neatly folded piece of paper tossed onto my lap. I looked up quickly, and saw her walking away... but just as she crossed back through the double automatic doors, she turned her head and smiled at me over her shoulder.

And me-- most sincerely intrigued and excited-- tore open the note, eager to read what this beautiful girl might have to say to a piece of shit like me. Scrawled in capial letters, it read:
"You have beautiful eyes. You should use them to read something more important than the sports page."
It was signed, 'Sarah.'

Without second thought-- hell, without even a first thought-- I launched to my feet and towards the double automatic doors. If I had only a moment more I would have made it. Instead I watched in dismay as the doors closed, slowly but not slow enough, with that mechanical voice so mockingly informing me that "doors are closing," literally and figuratively.

I sunk back into the graffiti'd plastic seats of the subway. I recognized her from somewhere- I knew it. Maybe I didn't, maybe I just wanted to recognize her from somewhere. As the subway started back up, I sat in disappointment, trying to place her within the annals and archives of my memory, unable to refocus what little attention it takes to browse betting lines, division standings, rebounds and stolen bases.

I was still twenty blocks from home when the subway stopped at 15th. But in a moment of admittedly atypical behavior-- that sharpest spur of moment-- I ran through the double automatic doors and down Market St towards the mouth of the 12th St station. I was gonna find her, goddammit. My stride gradually heated to a jog, which then (without me noticing) exploded into a full-on sprint, chasing after this girl; this beautiful girl who I coulda sworn I knew but wasn't capable of the type of honesty needed to admit that I didn't. But man... I wanted to know her.

Now hear you me...
I don't believe in fate.
I do believe in God (most days).
And I don't believe in Beatles.
But I do believe in me.

And me- I don't get lucky very often, and sadly I mean that in virtually every sense of the word. So whether by luck or fate or God or Lennon… there she was, just stepping off the concrete stairway that led back to the air of the city around us. She didn't see me, even though I woulda seen her all the way from Girard. She turned and walked in the opposite direction, myself still feeding and fueling the fiery sprint after her.

"Hey!" I yelled, not really sure of what I would say next.

She turned, shocked and surprised to see me, perhaps a little scared. "Hey."
Suddenly I wished I had thought of something clever to say beforehand. "I-- uh, I... can I buy you lunch? Or coffee? We could go for a walk or see a movie or..."
(sweetheart, anything that will buy me more time to talk to you.)

"I could use a cup of coffee."

We walked to the coffee shop, the big corporate one where hipster types make over-priced yet rather ordinary lattes with exotic names that evoke West African desert landscapes. The hipster types that paint their nails black and proudly proclaim themselves vegans in support of animal rights, but conveniently overlook the fact that their black nail polish was likely tested on the very animals they think they're saving. The ones that listen to unknown indie rock bands only until they become well-known indie rock bands, and then at that point the bands are too commercial and the hipster types are way, way, way too cool. I ordered a large coffee. She ordered a small. We sat outside on a stoop halfway down the block.

She didn't know what in the hell she would study, couldn't make up her mind. "God I want to know it all," she said, with a childish smile that betrayed sophistication. "I don't think it's fair to make me choose just one when I'm only nineteen. There's so much I haven't seen or done or experienced and here is some underpaid administrator urging me to pick just one thing to make my living."

She spoke with subtle confidence, about herself, about her world, about the world of those around her. Her voice had a palpable tone of recklessness, like every word screamed I Don't Give A Shit and meant it sincerely. She didn't answer "everything" when I asked her what kind of music she liked. She didn't express any affinity for chick flicks, unless you count The Princess Bride or When Harry Met Sally (I don't, personally). She didn’t have that same goddamn tattoo that, for whatever reason, every girl has decided to get implanted three-and-a-half inches above her asscrack.

And we didn't meet in a bar, a fact that was quite refreshing, really. I didn’t have to buy her another colorful and specific vodka drink- one which I would never drink myself- in order to earn the right to talk to her. There was no need for dinner at my expense, no Thai food usurping the modest figures from my ATM receipts. She didn't even make that empty insistence to pay for her own coffee.

There was nothing she didn't already know, nothing I needed to explain. Me... I just sat there, soaking up each of her words, wishing they would never stop spilling effortlessly from her lips. She laughed in a way that never once made me suspect it was forced or faked, even though I knew it must have been (I'm not that funny).

I just wanted to talk to her. And heck, I didn’t even have to approach her. Didn’t have to think of some sly and unassuming way to convey “hello, I find you attractive and this is my feeble attempt at striking up conversation with you.” I didn’t have to break the ice, the proverbial ice that seems inde-fucking-structable at times, yet when its needed for support, for safe distance, seems to melt always instantly, leaving me flailing and failing and falling.

"Why don't you have a girlfriend?" she asked. I wasn't sure how to answer to that question. Even if she hadn't asked, I wouldn't have been sure how to answer that question.

"I get bored, I guess. At first every girl seems so perfect. Then their faults come shining through, breaking through whatever impression they've given me, or whatever impression I've decided to take. But mostly I just get bored of being with the same person."

"Sweets grown common lose their sweet delight," she said, smiling.
"How come you don't have a boyfriend?" I asked.
"I do."

And with those words my best first date suddenly became my worst. She had a fucking boyfriend. They'd been together for three years, living together for two. She doesn't cheat on him. She's just not that kind of girl. She thought I was really nice, but…

"Oh, I didn't mean it like that," I lied. "I was just asking."
She kept talking. I stopped listening.
I don't remember exactly what was said in the moments after. She gave me her number and I didn't keep it. When we parted ways back at the subway station, she seemed genuinely happy to have met me. But I had mixed feelings, which I know is very selfish and very shallow but also as honest as I know how to be.

I remember the contents of her note only because it still sits in the top drawer of my dresser, in a pile of assorted notes from ex-girlfriends, admirers, and girls that were just little too far out of my modest reach.
And that was it. I never called her, never saw or spoke to or heard from her ever again. The best first date I've ever had. Sadly, also the worst one.