A Good Date? Scratch That.

I took Samantha out to dinner at an Indian place for our first date.  She was tall, wide-eyed, and a bit jittery, as if a slow pulse of electricity was steadily coursing through her.

At dinner, she would answer my questions by talking down towards her fork, and she barely picked at her delicious tandoori chicken.  Clearly, something was the matter.

"Samantha," I asked, "What's the matter?"

She looked up at me slowly.  "I'm sorry.  I just don't think I'm ready to date."

I leaned in.  "It's okay.  We can still have a good time.  Dinner's still on me."

She smiled at that, and opened up a bit more for the rest of the meal.

After dinner, we hit up a park.  As we walked, she asked, "Could you hold my hand?"

Why not?  Wow.  The grip on her.  Ooh.  Ow.  Okay.  Hey..!  What the–fingernails?  Agh!  Let go!

I ripped my hand away, now sporting three sharp scratch marks.

I yelled, "What the hell is wrong with you?"

She stared at me, then looked down at herself as if she was slapped awake after being asleep for three days.  She trembled.

She said, "I'm sorry, I've just always wanted to do that."

I put up my hands and backed away.

"Okay then," I said, "Have a good night," and I walked away with all due speed.