I totally wrote this like 4 years ago. I have too much to do to write something. I have to get some sleep tonight. Fuck.

Dorkcus Clever. When she first told me his name I didn't think much. In fact, the first thing that came to mind was a thirty-five-year-old man that lives with his mother and masturbates to the underwear ads in the Sunday paper. Dorkcus Clever—fat, balding and impotent. Dorkcus Clever, immediately I imagine the love child of Marve Albert and Jackie Chan. When I think Dorkcus Clever I do not think attractive.

“When I met him I had flashes of our wedding and our children and our life together,” she clasps her hands together as if to punctuate her excitement. Her strait blond hair looks like a special wooden box hand crafted to frame her face. And as she says this I am silent. I'm busy contending with flashes of a hairy ape like man humping her and giving birth to a Neanderthal child. I realize her standards are kinda warped so I decide not to say very much. This is the same woman that used to write prison inmates because, “lots of beautiful mean end up in severe situations.” As if to say murder is “severe” not warped. I flash back from the looming thought of her child's protruding forehead when she becomes silent.

Usually, when someone pauses it’s not because they decided it’s time for a dramatic sigh, but rather because they want you to say something or show a little interest. I was most concerned with my thoughts of a heavy browed man grunting on top of her. She could probably do better. I decide to let her say something before I make a comment. That way there is less of a chance for me to sound like I wasn’t paying any attention. She tilts her head to the side as I cough uncomfortably. Karen picks up on my no so subtle body language and says, “So what do you think?” Well, in all honesty I think that spending the rest of ones life with a primate isn’t my idea of fun. I jump to flashes of future Christmas dinners. Dorkcus jumping on the table and ripping apart Karen’s carefully crafted turkey dinner. While their little barbarian children dance around in loin cloths, grunting at the wonders of fire.

“I think everyone deserves happiness.” I tell her this because it sounds like I care and I can avoid telling her he sounds like early mans answer to Corky from Life Goes On. “What’s that suppose to mean?” Honestly, I don’t know what it means. So I try to come up with something fast. “It means there is a shortage of good men,” here I pause and try to make it sound like I am being philosophic, instead of full of shit. “And he sounds like one of the last ones left. Besides, if you don’t go out with him how will you know if he is great or just a dick?” I intentionally refer to him as he. I figure in this case using a pronoun would work best because I’m not sure if I could keep talking if I have to say his name a lot.

“I suppose you are right.” I smile. Even when I’m not right—I’m right. This pleases me. “But I need to ask you a favor.” I stop smiling. This does not sound like the type of favor I am happy to do. Watering plants, feeding your dog, picking up a gallon of milk while I am on the way to your house. These are things I don’t mind. When I do them I do not become entangled in the details of the lives around me. I am free of friendship bondage. I like it that way. I want to let her know, but I don’t think she would take it very well.

“What kind of favor?”
“Well, I told him I would meet him this evening.”
“Ok.” I pause. She pauses also. “Do you need a ride?”
“No. He is coming here, to the coffeehouse. I just want you to wait with me and check him out and let me know what you think.” She says this and I can already see squatty little Dorkcus waddling into here and me having to smile and play nice when I want to vomit at the sight of his extra thick glasses and horrible hygiene. In a regular situation I would make an excuse regarding work, or ill health and talk my way out of becoming the third wheel on the motorcycle from hell. If I want to get out of this I’m gonna have to be honest and tell her why. That just isn’t a pliable option. Telling your friend that you don’t want to wait around and meet the chromosomally challenged love of her life because it’s impinges on your inability to become more than surface issue friends, probably won’t go over so well. I wonder if he is even housebroken.

“Are you asking me to chaperone your date?”
“No. Of course not. I’m not fourteen.”
“I know that, but it seems an awful lot like you want to use me as a buffer. If he is that bad then why bother to see him at all?”
“I’m not saying that. I just. I just wanted someone here.”

Things had suddenly taken a turn for the worst. Even if she denies being fourteen she made the basic plea that cannot be denied by women. It is loosely known as a cry for help regarding potential awkward situations. It means she likes you so much she doesn’t want to be alone with the guy. If Neolithic man was half as bad as I suspect she was gonna need some sense shaken into her.