A Gloomy Date

 

The following vignette is about a somewhat typical (because of its outcome) but untypical (because of the setting) date. 

A date for Saturday night. I was going to play music, drink beer and play pool with an educated man I'd been chatting with for a few weeks. I'd never met him in person. I drove up and down a gravel road out in the country trying to find the address. But upon locating the place and finally driving up his long, gravel road, I found I had arrived at the House of Usher, an overwhelming gloomy woodpile of washed-out gray boards and an octagonal window with stained glass rising up against the cloudy sky. 

As it started to rain, Scrooge's doppelganger came out to greet me, a great giant of a man, and my mouth was still open in surprise as I carried my accordion across two planks stretched across a veranda that was still under construction. The oppressive air continued into the dark, dimly lit house with unfinished projects scattered in repose against various walls and a row of windows so thick with film it was difficult to admire the greenery beyond the frames. But evidently, the outside world was of little interest.

We stood chatting beside a counter in the kitchen a dreadfully long time, until finally I asked 'May I sit down?'  and 'Should I put this pie in the fridge?' We talked for half an hour and he didn't offer me a drink, he had forgotten me, although he was drinking a beer. Later, I stumbled around in the dark with my arms full-on zombie in order to find the washroom. 'Do you think you could turn on a light?' I asked.

After a lackluster accordion performance and a confessional or two by the host about how he loves to be alone and finally, the offer of a beer that came wa-a-a-a-y too late, I left.