In its continuing zeal to torment me, the universe surfaced another wench from the bowels of JDate. I had seen her before in a thumbnail jumble of prospective dates: an Asian or some kind of mix. A Jew hunter. This week she contacted me.
“I’d love to meet you. I can send you my bikini picture so you can see what I look like. Jdate cut my pic off from neck down. If you like the picture, then let me know. Are you free tonight?”
It was a laughable message. Slightly more clever than the trolling 24-year old Czech prostitutes who seem only interested in meeting men between the ages of 40 and 60. This one claimed in her profile not to be interested in looks. Thanks a lot.
In the spirit of the Valentine’s Day that was fast approaching, I wrote back and told her to go ahead and send the bikini picture. And she did. Quickly. And demanded my telephone number.
I thought of posting the photo here. But I might marry dear, sweet Izumi.
And what are the chances that this happened on the same day I almost got into a fistfight with an old coot at a bagel shop? He turned on me angrily after the counterman asked me first what kind of schmeer I wanted on my bagel. And he began to sputter with fury after I said, “No more coffee for you!”
And by what loss of all reason could this also have happened on the day that, as I was stomping up the stairs from the subway platform heading into a snowstorm, a man standing below looked up and repeatedly flicked his tongue at me through a set of yellowing teeth? He had that gaunt, whiskery face of an inbred hillbilly, the kind in the movies who make that face at someone just before they truss them up for a later spree of sodomy.
And how could this have possibly happened on the very same day that another jdate wench, for whom I had done an enormous favor, decided that she just didn’t want to meet me, after all?
And people call me a misanthrope.