Okay, let's give him a chance. Even though he misrepresented his height, age, and eye color . . .
So. Weird.
Who does that?
"Hi," I finally replied, examining him, my reporter spidey-sense tingling.
Derek flinched at my returned greeting, his eyes narrowing, and he frowned.
"You're Marie?" His tone was distrustful?
"Yes." I nodded once, slowly, cataloging his clothes. "And you're Derek."
"Of course I'm Derek. Who else would I be?"
"Uh . . ." Yeeeeeah no. I can't wait to tell Sandra about this guy.
"Moving on." He shook his head again, as though shaking himself, and frowned at the table. "So, Marie, you're a writer?"
"That's right. And you're an engineer?" I asked, no longer in date mode.
"Your profile said you've had one serious relationship in the past, is this true?" Derek lifted his dark eyes to mine again and this time his expression struck me as carefully neutral.
"Yes." I gave him a pointed look. "Everything on my profile is true."
It didn't feel necessary to clarify that though I'd only been in one serious relationship, I'd had relationships in my early twenties, all of which-except my last boyfriend-had been bad and/or unhealthy decisions.
So, yes, technically everything on my profile was true.
Not like your profile, buddy. Not even your eye color is right.
He didn't seem to catch my hint. "As a woman in your thirties, what are you most looking for in a companion?"
I flinched, unaccustomed to such severely direct questions right off the bat. Not that I was opposed to directness, just that it wasn't typical on first dates.
In my limited experience with online dating, the order of actions was usually as follows:
1. Both people smile and try not to betray their thoughts as expectations based on photos are either surpassed, met, or disappointed.
2. I shake off my initial impression and try to have an open mind, talk about inconsequential things like movies and the weather.
3. I don't get my hopes up if things are going well.
4. I never commit to seeing him again in order to avoid appearing overeager.
5. I wait three days, and then text. If the text is not returned, forget him and move on.
I'd only sent a text to four guys over the last two years. Three had returned my message. None had lasted longer than the third date, and no one had ever felt right.
"I guess . . ." I cleared my throat, glancing over Derek's shoulder to the busy café behind him, as I attempted to parse my thoughts.
As a woman in your thirties was a strange way to frame the question. What did my age have to do with anything?
"So, you would say that you don't know what you want?" He sounded curious.
My gaze cut back to his. "Yes, I know what I want."
"But you don't want to tell me?"
"I don't mind telling you." I studied him for a moment, gathered a deep breath, and spoke the truth. "I'm looking for the right person."
I'm looking for my perfect match.
Derek's expression didn't change, and he continued to gaze at me with a patient, watchful expression. But when I didn't continue, he angled his head forward as though to say, go on.
"And?"
"And that's it. I'm looking for the right person."
"Ah, okay. And what traits will this right person have? Starting with the most important."
What?
"I-"
"And if you could rank each attribute on a ten-point scale of importance-where ten is the most important-that would be very helpful."
Now I openly frowned at him. "You want me to rank personality traits on a ten-point scale, starting with what I find most important?"
"Not just personality traits, physical attributes as well. Or, if you like, you can start with your love dialect."
"My love dialect?"
"Correct. What form of affection is most meaningful to you, and so forth."
We stared at each other. He continued to regard me placidly, with a friendly albeit detached smile. Meanwhile, I was plotting my escape, polite social discourse be damned.
Usually, I didn't agree to meeting face to face unless I'd spoken to the potential date on the phone first, ensuring we had some level of chemistry. But I'd made an exception for Derek, because he was supposed to be my perfect match.
But clearly the system didn't factor in the degree to which a person is a loon.
Says the sweating woman who had astronomical-and therefore understandably annihilated-hopes. Look in the mirror, looney bird.
I was just about to make an excuse when he announced, "We should engage in small talk. How was your day?"