Gentleman's Jack, Part I

Whiskey. A popular drink amongst Southern men. If I'm not mistaken this is what the charming, aforementioned Southern gentleman was drinking the afternoon we met. Yes, it was afternoon. College football was on. I had secured a seat at the bar with a friend of mine and was enjoying watching my team play. There was a newspaper on the bar, left by the previous inhabitant of my seat, which the charmer asked to look at. That opened all lines of communications. As I've said before, I can talk to a brick wall, and when that brick wall is cute with a southern drawl, I'll talk its ear off. So we got along quite well, and talked for a couple of hours (sound familiar?), much to my friend's dismay. It is not appropriate cat and mouse game play, you see. I don't subscribe to that behavior. If I like someone, I like someone. If I don't, I don't. Now, I can't prove my theory is better than any other, but it's certainly more suited for my personality. So that afternoon numbers and business cards were exchanged, and not in the sleazy, I'll ask but never use it sense. He actually, quite enthusiastically I might add, asked me to dinner the following Monday. Wow, this one swept me off my feet. He left early to meet friends at another bar, and we parted for the day. My friend wouldn't haven't it any other way.

So Monday came and there was no word from his end, so I feign an insane workload and beg for forgiveness. Perhaps he was just drunk and didn't seriously invite me to dinner. I gave him an out, and myself a graceful exit. I thought I'd never hear from him again, when he responds claiming death in the family, he had to go home but will call upon his return. Have I mentioned that his home is the same as the beloved vacation spot of me and my family? Match made in heaven, right? So he returns, and I think there was another mismatched outing, but I refused to give up.