I’m the spider in your killer web
I’m the genie in your bottle trap
You’re taking me do-hown with you, yeaheah
You’re taking me down with you, yeah
With this very unfortunate song my first date with Mitchell began. We were to go to the beach because it was so conveniently close to where I live, according to my prince in an old blue Ford that was in desperate need of a good cleaning.
As a devoted beach-lover I am always prepared for some quality beach time, my knight however, produced his shining armor in the form of heavy army boots. ‘Nice,’ I remark. ‘I work as a Civil Engineer,’ was his excuse.
And as he drags his heavy equipment through the sand while I skip about like a deer in a meadow, he utters the sound that is supposed to safe every awkward silence: ‘So’ followed by the ‘what do you do?’ A very strange question if you ask me, because isn’t it obvious I’m walking here at the beach with you? Much like the ‘can I say something?’-icon. Why are you asking if you can say something while you are actually saying something? But never mind the detail, more importantly, how am I going to answer? Unemployed, looking for or in between jobs or making a career switch to become an illustrator, something I’m not even certain of.
‘Well,’ I say in return, the sound of hesitation, ‘are you, okay? You look like you are having trouble. Say, do you always try to entice girls with heavy material?’
Sarcasm, my only stronghold in times of distress.
‘Say, are you always this straightforward?’
‘You got me.’ I glance at him for a moment and suddenly I think I find him attractive. I try to come up with a reason why. Is it the remains of his hair that stands up like grass in an open field, or maybe it’s the boots after all, no impossible, or the fact that we have nothing in common. I’m puzzled. And worse, he’s not buying my diversion and says: ‘So, what do you do?’
‘I’m over-thinking a career change,’ is my answer.
‘Over-thinking? That doesn’t sound like a plan. And what will you change to, if I may ask?’
‘Illustrator. People say I’m good at drawing. So that’s my plan.’ I sound like a loser, I say to myself.
‘Every step begins with a first step.’ Not the clichés, I scream inside myself. I hate the clichés. I’m allergic to the clichés.
‘So true,’ I say while I nod like a submissive child.
‘You know what,’ he says, ‘I’m beginning to get a little tired. These boots are heavier than I thought.’ I chuckle. ‘I totally understand. Shall we turn and get a coffee at the nearest beach club,’ did I just do the safe? That is bad dating decorum. Shame on me. But he doesn’t seem to mind. I take another look at him and the same feeling befalls me. I like him. But I don’t! I say to myself. Am I really a spider in a web? This guy is far from my type. The opposite of my type. But still…
The cafe where we sit is decorated with excessively large lamps hanging over tables made out of old wood that one day washed ashore and is now given a second change as a piece of furniture. The paintings remind of stormy days at the beach with withered faces and colours of dark blues. I take a good look at my partner, but I’m stupefied. A genie in a bottle trap.
He orders fresh mint tea with honey, which for a woman would be the safe choice, so I order an espresso, bold and strong. I lift my cup and say cheers. And now he looks puzzled, something we have in common.
‘So,’ I say, ‘have any hobbies?’ Another I don’t know what else to say question. But I don’t hear the answer. The storm is raging in my head. My face painted in dark blues and my mood withered. I’m going down, yeaheah.
I try to admonish myself and tell myself to shape up.
‘I like to travel and surf,’ I say.
‘I like crossword puzzles,’ he says.
‘I also like pets and hats,’ I try.
‘I also like sleeping in a tent,’ he tries.
‘I like to sleep in a van when I travel,’ this isn’t getting us anywhere.
‘I like hummus.’
‘I’d like to get the cheque.’
‘Really?!?’ He looks at me with contentment and I still cannot shake that darn feeling of as if I like him. My head is not agreeing with my heart today and I should go and get out of this killer spider web.
When I get home, my prayers are finally answered. The feeling is gone. You see, I don’t like him like that. He’s not my type. Not at all my type. Far from my type. And my heart agrees. I like my heart right now, but don’t ever do that to me again. Or else You’re taking me down with you, yeah.