By Bridget Canning (Burin, NL)

It was the first date after ending a five-year relationship: drinks on a hot August night. Flop sweats were an understatement.  My friends assured me with the getting back on a bicycle cliché. On route to the pub, I glanced at a new 14 Speed, chained to a fence. Seemed like complicated machinery. I dug my nails into my palms.

He was more exciting than attractive; musician, shaggy hair, short, but with that overconfidence which adds at least 4 inches in height. We talked easily and drank cider. On the third pint, I realized my predate anxiety has caused me to overlook supper. Food would be smart. But the menu was finger foods; the thought of him touching my hot wing smeared fingers was unbearable. Another pint. He leaned over to light my cigarette. Eyes met, heart fluttered like a greasy chicken wing.

After wards, we went for a stroll. I felt fantastic: newly single, endless possibilities. We passed a new restaurant I was curious about, the kitchen staff was outside smoking. As we passed, I paused to laugh at the musician's joke, tossing my hair obligatorily. Abruptly, I tripped up over my own drunken feet with a resounding full-on splat. The kitchen staff responded with an ooooooooohhh!!!! like an arena of soccer fans when the ball misses the net. You ok? asked the musician, voice high with concern, but twinged with annoyance. I blurrily nodded, teetered to the top of my heels and barfed on his Jon Fluevogs.

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