Do you...Swim?

You were woman who waited.  Sad and European looking.  Stripped shirt, red lipstick, black everything else.  The bar was loud and crowded and a place you normally would not suggest for a date with a stranger, but I was well written and witty and requested something chic.  

I was the man who arrived in the Capitals jacket who shifted uncomfortably in my chair for forty five minutes, arranging and rearranging the items on the table so that they could be Perfectly.  Perfectly.  Perfectly straight.  And out of no less than 45 seconds of continuous silence, I would occasionally ask questions like "So, do you...swim?" and you would do nothing to better the situation answering, "Yes.  I am able to swim."

I was the man who, until tonight, made it through 32 years of my life without ever having eaten a sweet potato.  A feat you found unimaginable.  And you taunted me sweetly, but I was further unnerved and steeled my convictions to speak less, eat more, and never see you again.