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He said, “You have lovely eyes.”
I said, “Thanks, I got them from my mother.”
He said, “You must look a lot like her.”
I said, “Not really. She was my tissue donor when she died tragically and unexpectedly, so these are her literal eyes.”
He said, “Oh…”
I said, “Yeah…”
He said, “…”
I said, “If I’m completely honest, it does complicate things.”
“How so?” he inquired.
I started, “I just don’t know that I could ever see your naughty bits without thinking that it’s through my mom’s eyes…that she will always be there watching what I do and judging me.”
He swallowed hard.
I continued, “Sometimes, I fear that I am just the vessel and that she’s controlling me through her eyes—that I’m just the body, but she’s the soul.”
He said, “Excuse me for a minute, I have to use the restroom.”
And just like that, he was gone.
Once in a while, I walk by the restaurant where we met and give myself a high five. I think of how diabolically awesome I am that I made up that horrible lie on the spot. What can I say? I just wasn’t attracted to him.
I never have been good with confrontation.
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