Mikey:Hey George. Just checking in to see how your date went. If it’s over. Mine usually end pretty quick. Not that yours would. I don’t know. I’m just bored. My ma and sister are watchingDancing with the Starsand I was thinking about you. Your horoscope for tonight wasn’t great. Take Care.
George smiled, thinking about Mikey in Little Italy with his family. He texted back.
George:It was the worst, Mikey. I’m never dating again.
Mikey texted back immediately.
Mikey:Was he a sassy leprechaun in a yellow Camaro?
George laughed.
George:No. Rude and oblivious. Can we talk? I hate texting.
A few seconds later he heard a weird electric chime. A blue bubble informed him he had anIncomingSkype call from M. Napolitano. Would he like to answer?He had forgotten that he even had Skype on his phone—had only used it once a few years back when his boss, Arlo, at the grill was away. He answered the call, immediately remembering that he was shirtless and in his underwear with his dick hanging out. Fortunately, his phone was a small device aimed high.
“Hey George,” Mikey said. “Hubba, hubba. Did you take your shirt off just for me?”
George chuckled nervously. “Uh, no. I didn’t realize that you were using Skype. I thought you would call the regular way.”
“I use it to save minutes on my mobile plan.”
“I thought that’s what wi-fi was for.”
“Only data. I use a lot of both with my job.”
“Gotcha.”
“So, bad date, huh?”
George grabbed at his forehead, giving Mikey an unintentional but appreciated glimpse of his armpit. “Mikey, I don’t even know where to start. I’m still confused. It was like a date with a Gen X-er pretending to be a Millennial.”
“He was on his phone a lot, wasn’t he?”
“Yes. Like it was an appendage or something.”
“That’s happened to me too. I’ve pretty much run the gamut of bad dates.”
“Your line about the sassy leprechaun in a Camaro was pretty fucking funny.”
“His words, not mine. It just happened Tuesday. I swear to God I’m not lying.”
“I believe you. But I want to hear more,” George said, sitting up on the mattress.
“Well, there’s not much to say. He was under five feet tall—very southern, very flirty, slightly delusional and—I’d guess—in his late sixties.”
“Wow. Did you know all that ahead of time?”
“No,” Mikey said. “I broke the cardinal rule of insisting on a profile pic.”
“He didn’t have pic?”
“It was of his car. A hot rod.”
“Wow.” George winced. “That’s misleading.”
“Yeah. And his stats were fudged as well. It’s all good. We’re friends now. But, at the time, I was surprised to say the least.”
“Most folks would be. How did you handle it?”
