Herr Cranky-Pants

And now my first foray into the international playing field. A German gentleman, Herr Cranky-Pants displayed his creative temperament with lots of style. This veritable billboard of casual fashion ease displayed a particular put-together messy look that you simply don’t see in American men very often. (Perhaps due to missing a particular gene for that certain je ne sais quoi.) To top it off, he strongly resembled Eric Clapton.

Though he was well known for being an incorrigible curmudgeon, I thought of him more as an artsy-irritable-just-on-the-edge-of-depression type. That is to say, just my type.

He flirted. I kind of flirted back.

He flirted some more. I gave it my best in return. (See introvert...paying particular attention to the fifth paragraph.)

We did this for some time. The Dance. It was as fun as flirting can be...for me.

Then one night he called with an invitation. "Mit me on zee terrrace of zee oenoteca by zee beach," he growled in his brusque Germanic accent. At the risk of revealing too much information, suffice it to say, I found his manner of spitting commands strangely seductive. I planned to obey.

I found him leafing through a fine art journal as I approached his table at the local swanky wine bar. He rose to a half-crouch as we exchanged kisses on the cheeks (very European - how cool was that?!) and settled into our first date.

As with most first dates, we started with small talk. (In case you missed it above, I do not love this chit chat stuff.) After a few exchanges about absolutely nothing, I was thinking, “Hmmm…a glass of wine would be nice.”

As if reading my mind, the next thing I heard from him addressed that very yen. "Ziss evening, zay'rre not serrving at zee outdoor tehbles," he said. Then, with a casual flip of his leather bracelet-wrapped wrist in the general direction of the bar, he continued, “Go on up and get uh drrink.” And with that, he picked up his reading glasses and his fine art journal (no doubt to make the time of my absence pass more quickly) and settled his concentration on the article he had put aside upon my arrival.

I was so shocked that I followed his orders suggestion - if only to move beyond my frozen deer-in-headlights response.

I returned with a glass of wine and the night unfolded under a canopy of glittering stars with background music provided by the soft slap of ocean waves on a sandy shore. We chatted and laughed. I relaxed into my charming self (once I get comfortable...or get a glass of wine in me. Whichever comes first.) He exhumed just enough chivalry to walk me to my car as the arc of the evening descended to its end point.

A gentle sea breeze sent a fragrant puff of salty sweetness in our direction as we hesitated for a moment beside the door of my Mercedes. There we stood, in the silence of a dark summer night, gazing at the moon's reflection in one another's eyes. A quick glance down and away...then back up and our eyes locked once again. Hands touched - just barely. Then he leaned in to kiss me. Oh my! Memorable, as kisses go. A really lovely, soft, long, sensous kiss.

He thought so, too, and said as much…right before he said, “You’rre rreally too nice a voman for my type. You don’t vant to get involved vis someone like me. Rreally. Believe me.”

Without a word, I slid into the car and, with the taste of his kiss still on my lips, drove away.

We actually remained friends. (Well, that is to say, as much as an incorrigible curmudgeon will allow.) And over time I watched his choices in women…and how he treated them.

Next.

photo courtesy of CreativeCommons ©dwhartwig