Serge is a 34-year-old management consultant who lives at Yonge and Bloor. “I’d say my style is a little conservative, but I’m not afraid of flashing some flair once in a while,” he says. Serge hates being bored, and prefers semi-casual relationships with “fun, outgoing, worldly women” with whom he can have wide-ranging, intelligent conversations. Serge met Heather at a bar.
Heather was a hot blond with piercing blue eyes and a wit to match. We hit it off and chatted through the night, ending our impromptu date over late-night Chinese on Spadina.
We met up a couple times the following week, talking about life, love, capitalism, and everything in between. I noticed that Heather was somewhat reserved in the physical department: There was no kiss after the first date and she pointedly kept me outside her front door at the end of dates two and three. On date number four, we wandered over to a couple of bars in Yorkville. Finally, we ended up at my place just after midnight. One thing led to another and she wound up spending the night. In the morning, Heather mentioned she was supposed to meet one of her friends to go shopping but that she’d rather loll about in bed with me, so she kept her phone off all morning and afternoon.
We roused ourselves several hours later and were about to eat something when Heather turned on her BlackBerry and a stream messages from her friends and family started to roll in, each one more frantic than the last. Turns out Heather was such a stickler for keeping appointments that her friend panicked when she didn’t show. The friend called her mom who then called other friends to locate her.
Heather was embarrassed as she relayed this to me while we walked through the lobby of my building and brushed by two police officers eyeing the resident nameplates. They started questioning us.
Apparently, Heather had a friend-slash-ex-boyfriend who was a cop. Normally, the police have to wait a full 24 hours before reporting someone as missing, but friendship has its privileges. So when word got to him that Heather was “missing,” he promptly started going through her phone records and triangulating her location. The officer took my name and address but he laughed when I explained to him what we had been up to.
As we pieced events together over the following days, we found that virtually everyone in her contact list, including her boss and coworkers, had been called or texted by her mother, her friends or Toronto’s finest, and several of them presumed the worst. In fact, one of her musically inclined friends even started composing a song in her memory.
Heather was beyond mortified after speaking with the cops and realizing how far this had gone. In tears, she wondered if I would ever want to see her again. Of course I did.
Serge rates his date (out of 10): 10
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