Of course, the gentleman known as Possible-Mate-From-Chicago insists on buying the theatre tickets. And of course we do that, slightly desi, slightly dating thing, where we “debate” who is going to buy the tickets. I am sure he does it because he is a guy, and clearly a nice guy at that. I do it because this is the part of dating that I find slightly awkward.
I am sure, what girl doesn’t like a man to buy her things. But I don’t want him to think that I will require a lot of maintenance. Because I am not drama, yes I have a FLAIR for the dramatics – you can’t write a blog if you don’t. But my friends don’t routinely have to talk me off emotional ledges or listen to me drone on about faux problems that I have created from dating three men, two of whom have wives.I am soooo not "that" girl.
In the end, Possible-Mate-From-Chicago wins and buys both tickets. We go back to the hotel so he can change his shoes. He gets a call on his phone; the ring is set to “Whoomp There It Is”. “Hello?” he says when he picks up. “Nope…Can’t…In New York…visiting someone…” Oh, look I am “someone”. His friends must not know he is in the Big Apple. And I decide not to over think what “visiting someone” might mean and watch him change his shoes. After all, he and his friends could think this means, “a girl” or “the one” or "no one special" for all I know.
On our way out of the hotel we ask the concierge for dinner venues, American and Italian, and my date selects Bobby Van’s Steakhouse. We have dinner and when the bill comes I grab it and pay. He gives me a surprised look, but I think he realizes that he has to let me have this one. “Ready for Broadway?” I ask.”Yep,” he replies.
We get to the theatre and find our seats. Possible-Mate-From-Chicago takes some time to sit down because of his knee, but eventually we get settled in our seats, the ones that were assigned to us by the box office. Just then, as we think 10 minutes to curtains up, two older women, in their 60s, tap Possible-Mate-From-Chicago’s shoulder and say, “excuse us, but we won’t be able to see if you sit there all night.” And they are NOT nice about it. They act in that “I-am-entitled-Gossip-Girl-New-York-manner". Which is funny because they are sitting in the nose bleed seats with us. “Uhm, okay,” he says. “Do you think you can move?” they ask him in short, annoyed tone.
Okay. This is not the MOVIE theatre where you pick a seat, any seat. These seats were ASSIGNED to us, which is what I am about to remind these women when he says, “Why don’t we wait and see what is still open at intermission. People have a tendency to show up late,” he explains. “Well what about your knee? I don’t think us shifting is a good idea,” I say. I don’t understand why THEY can’t move at intermission. The row in front of us and the row behind them are both open. “It will be fine,” he says and returns his attention to the playbill. I shoot a glance at the women and stare ahead.
“This doesn’t happen in Chicago. Or Minneapolis for that matter,” he says quietly. “What?” I ask. “Rudeness,” he replies. “Mine or theirs?” I ask. “Theirs,” he says just before the lights dim.