Post-Modern Cassanova Takes Hillary on the Anti-Date

We sit on a bench, broken sunlight falling all around, the smell of fresh lilac hangs in the air. At one with the world, I begin to explain...

“You see Dan, the term post-modernism is slippery and hard to define. I understand the movement, as I do all others, through literature.”

Squinting my eyes tightly I look into the distance, visualizing the large crowd that has gathered to hear my glorious words. I let my mouth open slightly and pause for dramatic effect, and imagine Dan’s thankfulness to have gotten such a good seat.

“As you might have heard, I have entered a post-modern relationship. Despite the absurdity of it all, I find myself rather smitten at all hours of the day. She’s a charming young girl from the city who enjoys napping and hanging out with friends. I know this because her facebook profile told me so.”

Dan stares at me unbelievingly, his eyes like dinner plates, stone-armed and freezing. He manages to ask, “Does she even know you two are together?”

“Well not in so many words,” I reply, unworried.

His disbelief grows. “Have you been on a date?”

“Well a post-modern date. You see, in the 1950’s a date included dinner, a movie, a walk home holding hands. The guy of course paid. But everything’s different now. We went on an anti-date, which is similar to the anti-novel, which has no structure, plot, character development or resolution. The two are similar, and the intellectuals love it.”

Dan sits motionless, which I take as laughter and applause, cries of “Bravo!” coming from my faux-audience.

I continue, smiling, chin raised a couple notches. “Anywho, our date was much different. We watched the Astros game and I fed her wheat thins and easy cheese that wasn’t even mine. I acted nervous and cat-like the whole evening and made jokes that made no sense. Eventually she had to leave so I told her to have a nice walk and made a big production of sort of getting off the couch to see her off. Then I called her in the middle of the night, waking her up, and said ‘Hi it’s Michael, the tall, funny, good-looking guy from earlier. You might remember me from the couch.’’


Dan. Just. Stares. Blankly. Unbelieving. Minutes of silence pass.

“Well, are you seeing Charlie and the Chocolate Factory tonight with us?”

Long pause. He replies, “No. I’ve got a study session.”

I scrunch my face and hiss, “Gross. This isn’t Yale Dan.”

I begin to saunter off. I make sure Dan sees I’m not wearing a back pack. I gloat at his jealousy. I shake the eager hands of people I don’t know. I sign autographs. I look demure. I pretend to not want pictures taken today. I think of my new love, my heaven, my everything, my... fling.