Chapter 33
Date Two: The Pierre Chronicles
You ever just stop mid-situation and think—how?
How did I get here?
How did I, yet again, get suckered into another blind date?
And before you ask—yeah, she’s gorgeous. That’s not the problem. She’s into anime, loves music… though her taste is, let’s call it, suspect. Anything pre-2000s? Might as well not exist. Asian pop? Her entire personality. And jazz? She straight-up thinks it’s just lo-fi. Now, I can let that one slide—lo-fi is the shit.
But then, she looks me dead in the eyes and tells me—tells me—that the third movement of Niccolò Paganini’s second violin concerto isn’t Le Campanella, but Shut It Down by Blackpink.
"What…?" She tilts her head, genuinely perplexed. "Anime had a Golden Era?"
Oh.
Oh-ho-ho, primo. You know what, I changed my mind. Tell me more. This date is going fantastic.
…Yeah.
Tell me you’re a newborn bandwagoner without telling me you’re a newborn bandwagoner.
The Santa Monica Pier stretches before me, a perfect mix of neon chaos and sunset serenity. Waves whisper against the pylons, the Ferris wheel creaks under the weight of romantic clichés, and the salt-tinged breeze carries that kind of magic that makes people believe in soulmates.
Tragic.
Because the only thing magical right there and then is how long I can pretend to care about Elizabeth and her damn French bulldog.
Now, don’t get me wrong—I love dogs. Adore them. Hell, this Frenchie? Adorable. But…
Picture this: Elizabeth, radiant under the carnival lights, perched across from me with an ice cream cone so massive it’s actively defying physics.
"…and Pierre barked at the Roomba!" she gushes, eyes wide, completely enraptured. "It was so cute. I should’ve posted it on TikTok—instant viral hit!"
I summon a chuckle, the kind that’s two parts effort, one part shoot me now.
"Classic Pierre," I say, shoveling another spoonful of mint chip into my mouth. Maybe if I eat fast enough, I’ll sugar coma my way out of this nightmare.
"Right?" she continues, oblivious. "And then—get this—he pooped in my favorite shoe!"
"Wow." My voice is so void of life I might as well be an NPC.
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I pride myself on good eye contact, but right now? My gaze is drifting. Past Elizabeth, past Pierre, past my will to live.
That’s when I spot it—a kid at the far end of the pier, struggling to drag a prize-stuffed shark twice his size. The thing flops behind him like a defeated boss enemy. His parents? Oh, they regret everything.
The dad’s face? Priceless.
I feel you, buddy. I, too, am regretting every life choice that led to this Final Fantasy VII-style random encounter.
I mean, really—why call it a blind date? Just say what it is:
A Random Bullshit Encounter.
Hashtag: RBE. Let’s get that trending.
Elizabeth leans in suddenly, cutting through the carnival chaos like a car alarm in a monastery.
“Wait! I’ve been talking so much about Pierre, I haven’t even asked about you! What do you like to do?”
Finally. A lifeline. A crack in the never-ending monologue about her dog. I latch onto it like it’s my last shot at freedom.
“Well, I’m really into music, anime, trying to learn D&D, I als—”
Bzzzt.
Her phone lights up. And just like that, conversation? Dead. Killed faster than Pierre could bark at a Roomba.
“Oh my gosh, sorry, but Pierre’s daycare nanny just posted his hourly report!”
She’s already scrolling, eyes glowing with digital devotion. And just like that, my moment is gone.
Elizabeth spins her phone around, shoving it into my face like a lawyer presenting damning evidence.
Grainy footage fills the screen—Pierre, mid-tug-of-war, locked in mortal combat with a rubber toy. His tiny body quivers with undiluted determination.
I can almost hear the Rocky theme playing in the background.
“Adorable,” I mutter, wondering if I can yeet myself into the Pacific without anyone noticing.
Elizabeth beams like I just dropped to one knee with a ring. “Right? He’s such a little warrior! I swear, he’s my soulmate.”
“Lucky you,” I mumble, dragging my spoon across the bottom of my now-empty cup. The hollow scrape mirrors the void inside me.
Out of sheer desperation, I glance past her at the Ferris wheel. It keeps spinning, oblivious to my suffering—each rotation a cruel reminder of time I’ll never get back. Somewhere out there, someone’s laughing. Not forced. Not fake. Just laughing. Free. Unburdened by stories about dog poop and the crushing realization that I should’ve just stayed home.
“Want to ride the Ferris wheel?” Elizabeth asks suddenly, snapping me out of my existential spiral.
“Sure,” I say, already planning my escape. Maybe I’ll leap from the top and let gravity decide my fate.
And that’s when I bumped into you two.