Ha-nee, just a vonce: Part 2 - The Date

I am reluctant, but Papa convinces me to go on a date with the Russian Barber, blindly. But just a vonce.

Papa gives Sergei my number, he calls, and we arrange that he will pick me up from my mother's home after he is done with work. I had decided that we were going to play it safe and remain close by, in case I needed to make a run for it. The diner was my suggested destination. Not expensive, so I don't feel bad if this goes terribly wrong and he blows a lot of money, or if I insist on chipping in. Close enough to home so that he can bring me back in case I decide to concoct some emergency that needs my immediate attention. However, if all goes well, there are bars and dessert places in the area that we can head to. My safety nets are all in place. Perfect.

Sergei arrives. I get in the car, and he is really excited. Music is blasting from the car stereo, but I don't like it. An artist with an Enrique Iglesias-esque tone set to a Euro-poppy beat is crooning a tune about being hopelessly in love. Sergei feels inclined to reach over, touch my knee, and serenade me with a line. I jerk my knee away, and stiffen up.

"Vat, you don't like it that?" Oh, shit. The accent.

I shake my head, and say, "Well, I just met you, you don't have those liberties".

"Oh, Ok. I like it ven my vomen iz a little bit shy." Your vomen? Oh, shit. This is going to be a trip.

We pull into the parking lot, and easily find a spot close to the entrance. Sergei is insistent on opening the door for me, and comes around the side. I step out, and this is the first time I see him upright. Without heels, I am 5'5". With the boots that I was wearing, I hit a good 5'8", just the height where I could get a clear and direct view of the balding mass he was trying to cover. Let's face it, many men start losing hair, and that's fine. However, most manage to work it, without a D. Trump like comb over.

Sergei is walking next to me, trying to feel for my hand, which I quickly place into my coat pocket. He admires the way that the layers are cut into my hair. Suddenly, he leans his head back and around, so that he could get a good rear-view. Broadly grinning, he announces, "Oh, I like it ven my vomen has a little bit of meat on der bones. Who needs those toofpix from America's Next Top Model. Foo!". Oh, shit. He really just said that? I am dumb-struck and my eyes open in shock wider than they ever have before.

We are seated in a booth. I lean back and sit upright. Sergei cockily positions himself so that his back is to the window, body parallel to the table. His legs are spread out along the seat of the booth. However, all I could focus on were his squat legs, whose feet barely made it to the other end of the seat.

I stare into the menu, trying my best to not let him see the mortification that has spread through every crevice of my face. Sergei says, "Marishka", I pull the menu down and look at him, "Yes?". He purses his lips slightly, waves his hand in a grand gesture,and informs me (yes, informs, not tells me), "You can order vatever you vant!"

Small talk ensues, and we can't seem to find a topic that we agree on. He is appalled that I have very few Russian friends. Even more so when I tell him that I date men of all races. We start to argue about this, and he doesn't care to shift his view - Russians should only date and marry other Russians. He won't listen, and I know my words are falling on deaf ears. The meal arrives, and I eat as fast as I can, because I am overcome with an overwhelming need to run. Out of nowhere, Sergei decided to broach the topic of sex. Having not given him any indication or interest, Sergei proclaims, "Oh, I like it ven my vomen like it from behind!" Oh, shit. Check please, NOW.

He takes me home, I don't speak as I have nothing more to say. We pull up to the house, and Sergei, non discreetly, pops a stick of minty gum in his mouth. I turn to say good-bye, one hand on the door handle ready to escape. Sergei is brazenly going in for the kill, as pursed lips and spearmint laced breath propel towards me. I barely have time to move away as a wet kiss lands firmly on the corner of my mouth. My body twists towards the door, and I say "I have to go, right NOW".

"Vat? No kiss good-bye?".
My head shakes violently I firmly tell him "NO."
"Oh, Ok. I understand. I like it ven my vomen likes to play it a little harder to get." Oh, shit. He has no clue! I rush out of the car, up the driveway, and through the door, not looking back once.

A week later, my phone rings, its Sergei. I take a deep breathe and answer the call.
"Hello, Marisha" I hear hesitation in his voice, the cockiness gone.
"Hi"
"You didn't call it me"
"I know, Sergei. I don't think that this is going to be a good idea."
"Oh, vy?" The confusion in his voice told me that he really did not know vy.
"It just isn't. I don't think we had anything in common. I have to go now. Bye" I hung up without allowing him any time to protest.

Although Papa called me every day for two weeks asking if Sergei and I had spoken, I never told him about that call. He would have tried to push me into a second date, or looked to set me up with another comrade. I told him that it just didn't work out, and that we had nothing in common. No details, no getting upset, as I appreciate how much my Papa loves me and wants me to be alright. I did reassure him that I was not opposed to dating Russian men, but they needed to be like me - grew up in the US, and have diverse interests and friends. He is still tackling that challenge, without any luck.

Having fulfilled my daughterly duty, just a vonce, I prayed that Papa would stop meddling in my love life. However, a few years later, Papa discovered the power of the Russian personal pages.