by Krymzen Hall

Created on: May 10, 2008   Last Updated: September 25, 2008

I know the mirror won't answer me, Leshawn Anderson, if I ask it who's the fairest of them all, so I don't ask, even though my ivory-smooth, double-breasted suit hangs my well-sculpted body better than an old western sheriff executing the city's most wanted outlaw. Not to mention my smooth maple skin that sets off my eyes that are sharper than liquid onyx.

And it's not because I don't believe in fairy tales, which I don't, and it's not because I'm not the finest man on the planet. The mirror can't answer me because it's speechless.

Besides, there's just no need to ask a question I already know the answer to. Every woman I date, which is about seven women per week, proactively reminds me that I have been sent here to uplift the female species.

I grab my keys, knowing tonight will be no different, even though I'm flying blind.

Normally, I don't do blind dates, but Johnny, my best friend, has had my back since the first grade, and his cousin is new in town and she needs a tour guide.

I've been briefed. My date is extremely shy. Legend has it she doesn't speak much, and that getting her to relax is harder than staying awake in history class.

But I'm abreast in the art of cracking shells.

I pull up to the curb in my Hummer. I could represent in my Jag, but I like the feeling of being up on high.

She steps out the front door. In my sober, well-rehearsed swagger, I open the passenger door, then turn to nod at her, as if I'm cooler than the evening Los Angeles breeze.

Her eyes glimmer in hazel. They complement her long caramel-brown hair. I'm almost weak in the knees. She smiles. My heart almost melts. I jolt. Two times in five seconds by the same woman? It has to be a fluke.

I say good evening and she nods without a word. Alright, I think. I'm ready to play her game.

She doesn't speak as we drive to dinner. I assume she's in awe of me, so I allow her to savor my presence, my environment. I try the small talk. But she doesn't respond. She looks out the passenger window like she's trying to spot her runaway cat.

Valet is the only way I roll, so I pull up, tell the valets not to scratch my ride, and I escort my lady friend into the restaurant. "Two for Anderson," I speak like I'm the restaurant's only stockholder.

"This way, Mr. Anderson."

We sit in a private corner. Then she quickly hands me a laminated index card. It reads: How are you?

My facial expression lets her know that I think she's the weirdest thing on two legs.

She shakes her head quickly, confused, as if she thinks

• 1
• 2
• 3
• 4
• Next Page >>