A Human Date of Late to Hate

   A few weeks ago, a sudden outpouring of men were in the picture. Herb seemed my best prospect. He thoroughly charmed me. "A pretty person like you often has a beautiful soul." A winning line, right? 
   Even better, we were both pleased upon meeting in-person. Dinner was great. We had friendly discourse about work, his child, my writing. Unlike other dates, Herb picked up the bill without hesitation.
   And then, better still, he invited me to his place. "I'll play music for you," he said. Herb sings and plays guitar. 
   His shiny black guitar across his lap, Herb sang soft familiar tunes. I sat entranced, falling more deeply with each note. After a handful of John Denver, Celine Dione, and others' music, Herb played Josh Groban's "You Raise Me Up." 
   All the while, I envisioned Herb and I walking across stormy seas hand in hand. Kinda like a "come to Jesus" moment - only with this little Jewish lady and my Herb.
   The song ended, though, and my date set down his guitar. "I'm done." He dabbed his eyes with the backs of his hands.  "I feel too sad now. That song was for my ex-girlfriend. She died of a drug overdose."
   Well we didn't see that one coming, did we?
   "This" --he pointed at his guitar-- "this is my priority. And I don't want a bad reputation."
   Because anyone who dates me develops a bad reputation? No dude, I raise them up, until it's over, at which point they plummet as low as they could be.

   Needless to say, I put my jacket on and grabbed my purse. Only twenty minutes after Herb began to serenade me, err, his dead ex-girlfriend, the date was over.
   Herb gestured towards his front door.
   "You have a GPS to get home, right?"
   "Yeah, I have a GPS."  But your dead ex-girlfriend could raise me home faster, I assume.

    At my car door, Herb on the opposite side of my car, I said "Thank you."  I didn't know what else to say.
   Of course, now I have all sorts of words for him.