Big Hands

About halfway through dinner on our first and last date, I looked up and realized I had long since been completely at a loss to contribute to the conversation.  My date, John, had been monologuing about the acceptable and unacceptable items any self-respecting man could hang from his rear view mirror or place on his dashboard, and I had been  little able to add more than an “Oh, I see”.  In addition, he had been nonchalantly unbuttoning his shirt throughout the meal, and fear of eventually seeing his navel had sufficiently distracted me.  

The meal was followed by his folding up the bill and using the corner to pick his teeth as he described the exact hue of his car, and why he felt Paris Hilton was legitimately a ‘hottie’.  I was ready to head home and call it a night.

After the server returned with the change, he put down the bill and, in an unexpected and abrupt change of pace, grabbed my hands in his.

“You know” he said, with something resembling a longing expression on his face

“I like your big hands”.

“What?” I asked, not quite sure if I trusted what I had heard.

“Yeah, you have short fingers, but your hands are kinda big.  Reminds me of my mom.  They’re cute.  I really like them”

My expression obviously betrayed me at this point.

“It’s a good thing.  I mean it as a compliment.”

“Thank you” I said.  “I know you meant well, and I really appreciate it ... but just so you know, that’s hard to take as a compliment.”

“Gimme a break” he said, swatting the air between us.

“Seriously” I replied, in an unusually unflinching tone for me.

Seeming almost disgusted, he took a dramatic breath.  I could see he was on the verge of formulating what he would consider a rational means of changing my obviously ludicrous opinion.

“Come walk with me.  I wanna show you something” he said, before a reasonable excuse to leave sprang to mind or escaped my lips.

“Oh – I ... okay” was my smooth response.

We walked through a charming neighbourhood.  I wondered what he would have to show me on this tree-lined residential street.  There seemed to be nothing around except houses and happily mild-mannered passers-by.  He walked down a small pathway surrounded by a yard of statues and figurines, up the front steps and pounded forcibly on the front door three times before opening it and sticking his head inside.  I remained a comfortable distance behind.

“MA!” he yelled. “MAAA!”

I was frozen in wordless disbelief.

Mere moments later, a woman in a nightdress and a man in a robe who had obviously just awoken came to the door.

“There’s someone I’d like you to meet” he announced to the sleepy, yet unfazed couple, motioning to me.  “This is Di”

I remained frozen; the shock washing over me again and again.

“Di, these are my parents.”

His mother came down the steps and extended a swarthy female hand towards me.

“It’s nice to meet you.”