Member-only story
A One Week Date
The girl I met in Florida when I was twenty
It was 1997. I was a junior in college. My roommates and I and a couple of friends from home had flown down to Dayton Beach, Florida, for spring break. On our second night there, we visited a club called Razzles. After a few beers, I was feeling a good buzz.
Standing off to the side of the dance floor, I was talking to my friend when a waitress dressed like a Dallas Cowboy’s cheerleader — exposed mid-drift and short, tight, white shorts — came up to us. She was petite, with reddish-brown hair, a beautiful face, and a perfectly-toned body. She asked what we wanted to drink. We ordered.
After coming back with our drinks, I struck up a casual conversation with her. Nervous, I eventually decided to just go for it: “Hey, would you like to go out?” She hesitated and blushed, seemingly unsure if it was a good idea. Alas, she would not give me her phone number but did take my number down. I left for the night sometime after, got really drunk at another bar with my friends, and figured that was the end of it.
Asleep in the hotel room the next morning, I was awoken by my college roommate’s friend. He said there was someone on the phone named Lisa asking for me. It was her. I couldn’t believe it.
