I recently accepted a Zotsky date with Jim. He arrived in my inbox via The Carousel, a feature that sends me potential suitors based on preset parameters. Those parameters are only loosely followed, but hey. Jim’s photo wasn’t what interested me. What was important was that he didn’t live far away–maybe 12 miles. Most matches are 90+ miles away. So, I clicked on Jim’s profile based on his status (widower), location, and advanced degree. He responded right away.

We communicated back and forth for about two weeks. I enjoyed our conversations, as Jim wrote well, spelled correctly, and had a great sense of humor. He suggested we meet on Saturday.

“You pick a place, and I’ll come to you,” he wrote.

“What time do you want to get together,” I asked him.

“Let’s make it 1 p.m.,” said Jim.

Lunch date, I thought. My favorite lunch spot is Max A Mia. I told him so.

“Max it is,” he said. “How should I dress?”

“Casual,” I responded. He was thrilled. I booked a reservation at Max A Mia on Open Table for two at 1 p.m. Open Table sent Jim an invite to join. He accepted.

Saturday arrived. It was pouring rain. Nothing, however, could have dampened my spirits. I hadn’t been on a date recently and was looking forward to it. I also looked forward to ordering Max A Mia’s eggplant lasagna–my favorite entree. I arrived early and was seated in a cozy booth toward the back of the dining room. I ordered a small bottle of Pellegrino and waited. Jim arrived about ten minutes later. As soon as the hostess brought Jim into the dining area, I waved. I knew it was him, although he was much better looking than his profile photo. He wore a collared shirt, a crew-neck sweater, khakis, no socks, and sneakers.

Must have been a jock in his younger days, I thought. He slid into the booth opposite me.

“Hi,” he said.

“How are you?” I asked. “It’s nice to meet you, finally.” The server came by and gave us menus. She asked Jim if he wanted anything to drink. He didn’t. Just water was fine. About ten minutes later, she returned. Jim waved her away.

“Okay,” said the server, “when you’re ready to order, just slide the menus to the end of the table, and I’ll take that as my cue to return. I don’t want to bother you.” Jim nodded in agreement.

I talked more than Jim. He stared at me intently and never looked at the menu.

“Do you drink?” asked Jim.

“Yes, but only wine,” I responded. “We should order something, don’t you think?” I pushed the menus to the end of the table, and our server returned.

“I’ll have a bowl of soup,” I told her. I wanted the eggplant, but I got the vibe that Jim wasn’t on the same page. He ordered a margarita.

“Anything else?” she asked him.

“No,” he answered.

“Do you want bread?” she asked me. I shook my head, no, but Jim piped up.

“I would,” he told her. She nodded and left.

I ate my soup and felt odd eating alone. I let Jim do the talking. He told me his wife passed away two years ago; he loved music and often drove to New Haven to hear various bands. He had two sons who were married–just average chit-chat. All the while, he stared at me intently. Once I’d finished my soup, I was ready to leave. Something felt off. Jim didn’t want to part so quickly. He said he wanted to spend more time with me.

“I have to go home and let my dogs out,” I explained. He said he would help me.

“My house is a mess,” I said.

“I won’t look,” he told me, almost pleading. I gave in and said he could follow me.

By 3:30 p.m., I didn’t know what to do with Jim once I’d taken care of my pets. I was kicking myself for letting him come over. I turned on the television and found a PGA tournament. He said he played golf. He paid it no mind. I put out cheese and crackers, but he hardly ate. I did. I was hungry. He perused the bar and asked if I wanted to open a bottle of red wine. I don’t like red, but I have a lot of it because friends often give it to me. I opened a bottle and poured two glasses.

“Let’s go hear some music,” he suggested at around 5 p.m. I was dying to be alone. I wondered how long he planned on staying.

“I don’t know any live music places,” I told him. Jim, however, had the answer.

“Maple Tree Cafe,” he suggested. I Googled the place, found the number and called.

“Yes, we have live music from 7 p.m. until 9 p.m.” said a young lady on the other end. I told her we’d be there at 7. But what to do until then? I found some mixed nuts and added them to the plate I’d already put out. By now, I was eating everything in sight. Jim wasn’t interested, but he did ask me to refill his wine glass.

I can’t tell you why I didn’t speak up and tell Jim to go home. Eight hours is a long time for a first date. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, I suppose. I was putting my feelings second, as usual.

The music at the Maple Tree Cafe was loud and mediocre. Although I’d reserved a high-top table on the dance floor, no one was dancing, and those tables were very close to the band. You couldn’t hear yourself think there. So, we sat at the bar, and Jim ordered a beer. I had a glass of white wine, and the bartender asked if we wanted to see a menu.

“Up to you,” said Jim. Was he kidding?

“Why don’t we share some chicken wings?” I suggested.

“Sure–anything but buffalo,” he responded. “We’ll get six wings,” he told the bartender. “That’s enough, right?” I didn’t answer. At that point, I could have eaten the whole bird.

Jim complained when the band stopped playing at 9 p.m. “It’s Saturday night,” he whined to the bartender. “They should play longer.”

“This place is only 1/8 full,” she explained to him. “There isn’t the crowd to support that. Better bands get more people. More money is coming in when that happens, and we keep the music going longer.”

I just wanted to go home and make myself dinner. This date was just awful.

Jim drove me home in the still-pouring rain. The defroster in his Chivy mini-van malfunctioned, and he could barely see the road. We moved along slowly, and finally, we were in my driveway. My hand was on the door handle when Jim put his car in park.

“I’d like to see you again,” he said. He had that stare of his going again–the one that said I could get used to being with this woman. He leaned in to kiss me. I allowed a small one, and then bolted.

“It’s raining like crazy,” I said. “You need to get going.” Jim fiddled with some knobs on the dashboard, and suddenly, the defroster came on. He made no move to walk me to the door. I was thankful. He may have asked for a nightcap.

“I’ll call you soon,” he told me as I left. I smiled and ran into my house, very happy to be home.

Jim called again, and during that short conversation, I asked him why he hadn’t eaten anything for lunch.

“I didn’t invite you for lunch,” he responded. “I said we could meet on Saturday at one o’clock to get to know each other.”

“Why did you ask me for a place I liked?” I asked him. “Why did you accept the Open Table invitation? Why didn’t you say we’d meet at the bar or at a coffee shop?”

“You just misinterpreted me,” said Jim. “I was perfectly clear.”