The Staring Horror

Submitted by Eric:

Valerie showed up to our date with a dozen red roses.  She said that she didn't like being bound by gender roles and that she wanted to do something nice for me.  I could have considered it impossibly forward, but I gave her the benefit of the doubt.  Maybe she was just nervous, or this was something nice that she really wanted to do.

Of course, it would have been easier to accept either of the two latter explanations if Valerie ever deigned to blink.  The girl's eyes hardly broke eye contact with mine for a moment, and they were wide and brown and unblinking.

Imagine eating dinner with the last person in the world who you'd want to have staring through your open window while you were engaged in sexual acts illegal in all 50 states (and Puerto Rico).  That's what this felt like.

"You don't have to keep looking at me," I said, after enduring a minute's uncomfortable silence the way a toddler would carry a sack of 200 bricks.

"Oh!  Sorry," she turned away, thenceforth avoiding eye contact with me for the rest of dinner... except for those times when I looked up at her and she glanced away quickly, as if I had caught her in a forbidden act.

She also didn't tell me much about herself, preferring to reflect all queries.  I'd say, "Do you like your job?"

She'd say, "I'm more interested in what you do."

So intent she was to deflect all inquiries that despite my best efforts, I ended up knowing next to nothing about her by the end of dinner.

We left the restaurant and she grabbed my hand tightly.  She brought our hands to her mouth, kissed them, and said, "This is beautiful."

I squeezed her hand reassuringly.  She squeezed tighter.  I said, "I appreciate it, but I think that we may be moving a bit fast.  It's only a first date."

She stared at me.  I couldn't take it.

"And please stop staring!" I said, "It's driving me nuts."

"I'm not staring."

"Yes you are.  You've been staring at me almost all night."

She stared at me.  "You're picking a fight with me over staring?"

"I'm not picking a fight.  I'm–"

She released my hand.  "Give me the roses back.  You're insane."

"No.  You gave them to me."

"I want them back."

"No."

She stared.  This time, I stared back.  She blinked.  I smiled.

"I win," I said, and walked away, roses in hand.

She sent me about a dozen texts that night and into the morning, each one about ten sentences, going on about how she had been hurt, how she wanted something precious, etc.  It was sad and ironic that I learned more about her after deciding not to see her anymore than I did on the date itself.