Take 'Em to the Peachtree Dance

Story Set in by Ryan:

Claire and I, for our first date, had planned to go to dinner and then dancing at a nearby salsa/cha cha place. Dinner went all right... she had a habit of panting. Like a dog. If we stopped talking for more than five seconds, she'd breathe in and out quickly. Maybe it was nerves. I even asked her if she was okay, but she said that she was. I didn't want to embarrass her, so I let it be and hoped that it would stop.

After dinner, we walked toward the dance complex (it was only a couple of blocks away) and she reached into her purse and pulled out a razor blade. I asked her, "What's that for?"

"Your face," she said, calmly.

"My face doesn't need a razor." My hand went to my cheeks, which I had shaved not three hours before.

"It's for your pimple," she explained, "It's the only way."

"What pimple?"

"Erragh!" she groaned, and stuck the razor out at my face. "Just take care of it. I won't watch."

"I'm not going to hack at my face, pimple or not, with a razor you just pulled out of your purse."

She rolled her eyes. "It's clean... I'm... clean."

"Maybe we can just go dancing?"

"Pimple first."

"Let's just go dancing."

She swung her arms down and then up and then down one more time, like she was shaking an invisible person in front of her. "Pimple first! Pimple first!"

"All right!" I shouted, "I'll meet you there. I'll find a bathroom, take care of the pimple, and meet you at the dance. Okay?"

She nodded quickly, panted with excitement, turned, and headed off, in the direction of the dance hall.

I went home. She texted me a couple of times before she figured it out.