Chad held the bouquet in his left hand and knocked with his right. He held the bouquet tilted at fifteen degrees off vertical which he estimated was the perfect angle for giving the right impression. The impression he wanted to give was of a sensitive man. It would be wrong to take Chad for a two-bit play actor mouthing his lines by rote. If anything, Chad belonged to the Stanislavski school of dating. He was a method dater. It wasn’t good enough to pretend that he was a sensitive man. He had to be a sensitive man, at least until the end of the date, when he would head home having (presumably) gotten what he came for. He would lean forward as she spoke. He would gaze directly into her eyes. He would be an active listener, just like they taught at the seminar, prompting her on …
on and on …
on and on to the removal of her dress and her bra and her panties, and he would not go gently into the dark crotch of her soul.
When Stacy opened the door, she cried flowers! confirming to Chad that he was well on his way to giving the right impression. So thoughtful, and she grabbed the bouquet from his hands before he had a chance to introduce himself. The motion drew him across the threshold, and he was grateful for this because the last thing he saw before stepping inside was a small mob gathering at the corner, and a finger pointing in his direction, and a man’s face pasted over with a look of angry indignation. The last thing he heard as the door closed behind him was Hey! Isn’t that the asshole who—the voices were remote, which gave Chad hope that even if Stacy had heard them, she wouldn’t make a connection between them and him. If she did make that connection, it would probably ruin Chad’s effort to give the right impression.