Blind Date Delilah

girl_cork.jpgShe came highly recommended – like a great book, a fine restaurant, or a good plastic surgeon. Her name was Delilah, and our mutual friend, Nina, wanted to hook us up.

She described Delilah as a great beauty, with intellect and insight.

“She’s your muse,” said Nina.

I wasn’t falling for the hype. I didn’t want to go on a blind date. But Nina wouldn’t let up. She was sure that Delilah and I were perfect for each other.

I sighed and told her I’d think about it.

“Don’t think about it. Call her,” she insisted. “Fate doesn’t wait.”

Fate doesn’t wait. Those words echoed inside my head where my better judgment used to be.

I called Delilah.

She had the kind of voice that stayed with me like a deep massage in a candlelit room with an ocean view on a starry night. She had a quick wit and phone charm. My trepidation soon gave way to heightened anticipation. And so we made plans, not for drinks, but for dinner.

I picked Delilah up at her apartment. When she opened the door, I saw a vision of sultry elegance that went perfectly with her beautiful voice. Then, she launched into an unprovoked man-hating diatribe that would have sent a superhero into the fetal position.

Delilah had just gotten out of a bad relationship. Nina didn’t tell me that.

Delilah felt that she had been dumped, burned, betrayed and abandoned. The Four Feelings of the Apocalypse. And for no reason other than my gender, I represented the cause of those feelings. So she lashed out.

This chick was no muse. At least not mine.

I had made a reservation at Joe Allen’s, which was only a few blocks from Delilah’s apartment, so we walked and talked along the way. Rather, she talked, and I endured, as she continued on with her relentless rant.

At the restaurant, we sat at a great table on the patio, where Delilah’s non-stop male bashing was still in high gear when our salads arrived.

That’s when I stood up and said, “That’s it, we’re outta here.”

Holding a forkful of salad to her mouth, she looked at me, in complete shock.

“I can’t listen to this anymore,” I said, tossing a hundred-dollar bill on the table.

I led her out of the restaurant and speed-walked her home. The date lasted all of thirty minutes.

Later that night, Nina called. She told me Delilah felt terrible about going off on me like that, and respected the fact that I didn’t put up with it.

Then came the kicker.

“She wants to go out with you again.”

That was never going to happen. She was not my muse. She was not my date. She was not my type.

girl_glass.jpg Two years later, Nina got married. After the wedding ceremony, I searched the ballroom for my table. And when I found it, sitting there was Delilah.

Nina still wasn’t giving up.

Delilah and I had an awkward moment at first, but enough time had passed since that awful night that we were soon able to share a laugh about it.

As we continued to talk, the good part of Delilah emerged – the part I had only gotten a taste of over the phone. It was as if she had blossomed before my eyes. She was engaging and vibrant, well-read and well-traveled. She was political and passionate.

Nina was right. Delilah was a fantastic woman.

We talked and danced all night…We talked and danced for the next three years.

Then, she got a job that took her to London.

And our time changed…And our lives changed…And we changed.

But three years is a good run. Especially when we thought it would only last thirty minutes.



Robert Keats is a screenwriter and humorist.