The First Date Prophecy by Kate Tamberelli EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Authors: Kate Tamberelli
- Language: English
- Genre: Women’s Romance Fiction
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2 MB
- Price: Free
Lucy
A lonely woman with words but not much else.
“I once ate nothing but chocolate candy for an entire week,” I say, smiling
in a toothy, bright-eyed, chipper kind of way that I’m hoping just adds to my
allure, a heady blend of coquettish oddball charm that whisper-screams
Aren’t I so different than every other girl you’ve dated in this city, so
refreshing and unexpected and unabashedly original?
I am nothing if not mostly unabashed.
It’s a fairly tricky, razor-thin line, though, between oddball charm and
alarmingly oddball, and I’ve found myself squarely on both sides before. It’s
a risk I’m willing to take to end up on the right side, the memorable side, the
side that means I am not just a throwaway one-off round of overpriced
Brooklyn dive bar cocktails.
“Hershey dark chocolate bars for breakfast,” I press forth, raising my
highball glass of whiskey in the air, “Butterfingers for lunch, Snickers for
dinner, and Ferrero Rocher for dessert the nights I was feeling peckish. And
milk. Dear God, so much fucking milk.”
I deliver this particular anecdote while cruising smoothly on automatic, my
timing and inflection the same as it always is, quietly marveling at my ability
to make it sound shiny and new, like it has just now occurred to me to share
this rarely revealed and coveted piece of myself. Chocolate Week, however,
is a Lucy Minninger first-date classic. One of a select, carefully curated list of
stories that show my Truest Self. Or at least the Truest Self I’m comfortable
revealing to a first date. I often intersperse these performances with absurd
hypotheticals—what ifs and would you rathers—designed to start colorful,
surprising dialogue.
Sometimes Chocolate Week gets a good laugh. Other times—like this
slightly unfortunate moment right now—my date stares silently, sipping his
drink faster, ice clinking as the glass drains, not sure what is expected of him
next in our conversational volley.
Shit.
Next time, I’ll wait until the third round of drinks, minimum. Or maybe I’ll
scrap it altogether. Find a new sparkly tidbit for future suitors. My set could
do with some stiff housekeeping, considering how few second dates I’ve had
in the past year.
Five years, if I’m being honest.
My entire post-college adult life, if I’m being more honest.
I would backtrack, but I’m not sure what we’d been talking about before I
decided to hurl myself so wholeheartedly down this particular path. The
weather, ten degrees too hot for October? How every drink on this
predictable menu is at least five dollars too expensive for any self-proclaimed
—per the unmissable neon pink sign in the window—dive? Did I mull over
those topics quietly, or say them out loud? I down the precious last droplets
of my nine-year-rum-barrel-aged-ginger-and-lavender-infused Brooklyn Rye
and push boldly on, because there’s no other way forward but straight
through: “You wouldn’t believe how angry my body was by the end.
Completely enraged.”
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