Too late did I realize the pie was at his apartment, on the complete other side of town. Against all reason, I went into his place after the pie. He lived in a creepy bachelor hovel, with suspended bicycle, cheap busted Pier One furniture, the smell of socks - ick. I chirped, "I’ll get the pie" and headed for the kitchen. My eyes took in the enormous heavy-pencil-on-sketchbook-paper drawing of a vagina, in all its…uh…medical glory, taped to the refrigerator just as he flipped the stereo on, dropping the pre-cued needle onto Elvis Costello’s nasty little song, "Alison" - not coincidentally, MY name. Uh oh.
Attempting to remain bemused, during what I figured might be my last hour on earth, I queried if the artwork was his. He said he’d just bought it at a garage sale. And hung it up when you hoped a girl might come over?! I thought, incredulous. Somebody else’s genital explorations on your fridge?! I stared straight into the face of perhaps the most pathetic man I’d ever met.
I demanded to be returned home - which he did without much incident, only calling me a "bitch" when I laughed off his request for a kiss goodnight. My mother asked how the evening had gone. "Fine," I lied, marveling how I had survived my own stupidity. Damn sweet tooth.