I climbed into the car, trying to smile at my date while attempting to avoid catching my heels on the sundry empty soda cans that littered the floor of the passenger side.
I had felt rather sophisticated as I was getting dressed for what would be my first date as a Manhattan resident, but it occurred to me as I dodged a mysterious sticky spot on the dashboard that getting picked up in an ancient Honda that smelled vaguely of cheese was decidedly unsophisticated.
Don't be a snob, I ordered myself as I inched closer to the open window.
"I just need to get on the FDR and we'll be on our way," he said.
I couldn't figure out why he needed to get to the FDR when Chelsea Piers - our destination for the evening - was on the west side, but this guy grew up in New York City, so I decided he knew something I didn't and stayed quiet as he headed east.
Twenty minutes later we got off the highway and, having already covered all of the customary first date topics, fell silent.
Racking my brain for something to say, I glanced out the window in time to see us drive past my street and hear my date curse under his breath.
"I guess we didn't need to get on the FDR," he said, his face turning red.
I opened my mouth to say something supportive but what came out was,
"No, we definitely did not."
We finally got to Chelsea Piers and I made a beeline for the arcade, hoping that noise and crowds would make the night go a little faster.
"Wait, I forgot something."
He left me on the edge of the parking lot and raced back to the car. He popped the trunk and pulled out a Trivial Pursuit box, then walked back to me, beaming like he had just won a gold medal.
"What are we doing with that?" I asked.
"We're playing it."
"Playing it where?"
"Over there. On the bench. By the water."
"But what about the arcade?"
"Oh, we're not going to the arcade. This will be more fun."
So we sat and played the game as I shivered uncontrollably in a dress wildly inappropriate for the cold September night.
Two hours passed before I finally muttered something about needing to study and told him I had to go home.
"But I thought we would go get some pizza," he offered.
"No, no. No pizza. I need to go home. Now."
He pulled up to my apartment and had barely stopped the car before I got out, tossed a goodbye over my shoulder and slammed the door without looking back.
Two days later my phone rang while I was studying and I let it go to voicemail.
Later that night I listened to the message. It was him, asking me out again.
I never returned the call.