Von

I went out for a night on the town Saturday night.

 

 

I had fun.
The music was cool. There was a nice, professional crowd.
I ran into a few folks I hadn’t seen in a while.
Another young lady mistook me for my evil, diabolical twin brother (“I could’ve sworn I knew you from somewhere”).

It was good times, dog.

 

 

At one point I was on the sidelines chillin’—when my concentration was broken by someone callin’ my name.

 

I turned around only to be face to face with none other than my young, flaky club chick friend.

 

You know—the 23-year-old I met a few months ago.
Ol’ girl who asked me to dance. The one who gave me her number and insisted I call.
The one I actually called—despite my reservations about meeting women in clubs.

Yeah, her.

It was not too long after she gave me her number. We played phone tag for a few days before I finally got a hold of her. The 3-minute conversation consisted of me asking her stuff—followed by her giving one or two word answers.

 

Me: Hey, what’s goin’ on?
Her: Nothin’.

Me: How was your day?
Her: Good.
Me: Uh…what’d you do?
Her: Just worked.
*short, uncomfortable silence*

 

Yeah, it ain’t go well.

That convo—combined with her age and where we met, were confirmation of what I already suspected.

 

She was indeed a flake who wouldn’t be getting another call from me.

 

So imagine my surprise when she rolled up on me out of the blue at the party like we never missed a beat.

 

She even remembered my name (it took me a while to remember hers).

 

We talked briefly before she, again, asked me if I’d like to dance. Soon she took my hand and led me to the floor where we danced for a bit.

 

But she excused herself after a couple songs: “I’ll be right back.”

 

Uh huh. I’ve heard that before. Nine times out of 10, they ain’t comin’ back., dog. It’s a common flaky chick brush off. I wasn’t about to stand there like a simp waiting for her to return. But before I left the floor, I was curious to see what she was gon’ do. Initially she walked toward the ladies room—then made a sharp cut (like a receiver running a comeback pattern) and disappeared into the crowd.

 

Did she really have to do all that? Was it that serious?
Was the Bourne Ultimatum-type espionage really necessary?

 

How hard would it have been to say, “Thanks for the dance. It was good seeing you again, Von”?

  

Wouldn’t that have been a lot easier than lying? Or playing kiddie games?
It’s ain’t like I would’ve started crying. Or balled up on the floor in the fetal position.

 

 

Hell, I was minding my own business when she asked me to dance.
And it’s just a harmless dance. It ain’t like I was about to propose.  

 

At this point in my life, I don’t even get mad no more. I’m just amazed at how these young women will make shyt so much more difficult—when in reality, it’s really simple. Just be honest.

 

 

But I guess if they were honest, I wouldn’t have much to write about…

 

 

Epilogue:  Later that night, I was dancing with another young lady when I happened to notice the young flaky chick. She was dancing alone—but eyeing me. A few moments later, she was still makin’ googly eyes at me.

 

 

What the hell do you want from me, dog?

 

Unbelievable. I’ll never understand.