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Although he sat directly across from me, his hazel eyes curiously taking account, I paid him no mind.
“I knew I wanted you from the moment I saw you,” he would later say.
My hazel eyes were set on other sights.
Unfortunately, the 6’4, dark chocolate chunk of a man to my right, had a lilt that led me to believe he might play for the other team.(A common occurance when dating in D.C.)
The dinner party was a straight man’s paradise and this straight love jumper’s loss.
No eligible bachelors in sight. Though, I did meet a handsome hipster who walked me to the train station after dinner.
More about him later.
After exchanging a few words with “Striker”— and embarrassingly asking him to repeat his very Nigerian name— his slight accent put the nail in the coffin.
I was done.
You see, I’ve had my fair share of Naija men and let’s just say their jollof just doesn’t jive with my jerk.
But we’re love jumping right?
So in a casual exchange I gave him my number never expecting him to reach out.
But he did. He texted. He called. He texted again.
And even when I cancelled, rescheduled and flaked a few times–yikes!– he continued to ask me out.
Finally, our first date.
Drinks at a darling neighborhood bar that screamed: LOVE JUMP! There were hearts and pictures of the word LOVE, everywhere.(Did this guy know what he was doing or what?)
We sipped Sangria (well, I gulped while he nursed) and got lost in several hours of conversation about our heritage, hobbies and hopes.
It was perfect. He smelled like heaven and had the charm and intellect to match.
I remember thinking, this is one of the best first dates I’ve ever been on.
I’m guessing the same was true for him.
“See you in the morning?” he said as he drove me home.
“Sure. See you in the morning.”