#FictionFriday: How I Got Blocked on Twitter
This short story has been written in response to the “I Shouldn’t Have Written That” prompt.
I’ve been blocked on Twitter only once, and it wasn’t an experience I like to relive.
And I can’t believe I even wrote that. It was stupid and dumb—maybe exactly what I would have done. And did.
It started as a blind date. My friend Jeremy had been trying to hook me up with his girlfriend’s coworker for a month or two. “She’s so pretty, and she’s down for guys who play it loose and cool. She’s made for you,” he said.
I would just look at him, amusement plastered on my face. We would be in a bar, or in my apartment watching a game, or even at a park, grilling out under the blazing hot sun. Whatever the case, I would always respond the same: “I don’t know, man. I’m just not a blind date guy.”
I would take a sip of my Leinenkugel’s Summer Shandy, and Jeremy would stop whatever else he was doing and focus on me. He would have a beer in one hand, or a pair of tongs while he was grilling, or a handful of peanuts as the game played on. “Dude. She wants this. She is begging us to set her up. You could not be in a more perfect position.” He would turn to the TV or his phone. Then back at me. “The pressure is off for you.”
Jeremy would frown at my skeptical glance in his direction. “I’ve never felt the pressure off on a blind date. And I’ve been on far too many of them. Believe me.”
Jeremy would give me that look he had. That “Bro, c’mon” look. But I knew better.
He usually wouldn’t push the conversation beyond that, and I would always want to tell him to ask Kara or Jayme or Zoe or Rachael. Or Claudia, for that matter.
One day, after repeated attempts at asking, I could see the glimmer in Jeremy’s eyes as he set about asking me again. I put my hand up in the air, closing off his comment. “Don’t bother,” I said. “Just set up the date. I’ll be there.”
I could see the frown on his face instantly reach for the sky, unexpected jubilation running rampant on his face.
The date was nothing special, at least until our entrees arrived. Her fried caprese salad looked delicious with little balls of mozzarella fried and dressed atop the dish. My short ribs were resting on a bed of mashed potatoes, tucked in between piles of finely shredded carrots.
We demolished our dishes with intermittent conversation about jobs, aspirations, hopes.
After Rayna finished her salad, she wiped her mouth and folded her napkin and rested it on her plate. I took another bite of my short ribs, and I could only watch as she picked up her purse, flashed me a wry smile, and left.
My food snacked its way down my esophagus as I watched her from my seat on the patio. She unlocked her car, started it up and drove away.
My only remaining dining partner was my utter confusion.
So I thought nothing of it when I reached out on Twitter and asked her what went wrong. (I’ve taken rejection well, but a lack of excuse for leaving, well, that’s just something I found inconceivable.)
“Shut up,” she replied.
“Bitch,” I tweeted back.
When I checked my account next, I found that she had blocked me, and any attempt at an answer to my one burning question were completely and wholly blocked.