This is the 14th installment of a 100-day challenge to write a new vignette every morning.
While on the first date, he accidentally hit his head on the beam. Thea laughed even though—judging by the scandalized look on his face—that wasn’t the right reaction.
In her defense, it was pretty funny. His arms pinwheeled just like in cartoons, and he fell backwards onto someone else’s table, sprawled out like the Greeks in paintings of leisure. The basket of dinner rolls went flying, and one of the elderly diners literally clutched her pearls.
Thea wasn’t a monster; he wasn’t hurt. At the end of it, the only damage was tomato splatter on the back of his shirt and a crack in his ego. Both were better for it, according to Thea. Maybe he’d retire his lime-green polo—or, better yet, throw it out.
She preferred his shirt to his personality, though. They’d sat in this bistro for 43 minutes, and he’d spoken of nothing but himself and his accomplishments. He’d hurdled the line between confidence and arrogance, and he’d kept running. She refused to give him a medal.
Her friend must think her desperate, Thea decided, and she resolved to never again agree to a blind date.
Miles Away 