I’m sitting in a bar with a stranger I met on an app. “I’ve seen Mac Demarco play live. But he wasn’t that good,” he boasts. I ask him why. He proceeds to mansplain guitar strings and old venue equipment. I yawn.

In less than two minutes, I knew I wasn’t attracted to him. It wasn’t anything in particular. His voice rasped with a deepness I dolled myself up for. He gleamed with confidence, which felt endearing behind the words he nervously mumbled. I interrupted him forgivingly between pauses, smiles and hand gestures. He didn’t look me in the eyes. Strange. His heavy cologne irritated me. There was no synchronicity between us; just a young man and woman sitting at a booth on a first date. My body vanished into the red velvet couches, slumping into a waiting room for any sign of something. An urge, a flutter or a fuck. Nothing. He smiled, “Well I’m happy. This is going really good.”

His comment about our progress lingered in the air. Speaking in co-existence made pronounces sound official; a collective us. Lousy really. He misread my polite pretences. My mind wandered off, making eyes with a suit across the bar. I wanted to evaporate into nothing; I imagined excusing myself to the washroom and never returning. The beer weighed heavy in my stomach and I had no desire to sit through a second round of drinks. But I stayed like the passive female I am. I segued his plea for romantic chemistry with an abrupt change of conversation, so I blurted out a random fact about dolphin frequency. He reciprocated with gusto to keep conversation flowing, “You know dolphins commit suicide, right?” Oh Jesus. Another terrible turn, please get it over with it. I stepped into my female character, emphasizing a higher pitch with childish inquiry. “Really?” I didn’t want to know the answer. I was a terrible actress, pretending to be a woman interested in a man of no interest to her. I listened like my mother would.

While he spoke of failed Nasa-funded projects, I faded into the escape exits of my surroundings: the décor of the bar, an empty drink on a table, an older man with an expensive suit. Quietly, I role played. I reviewed the material we had covered. Mac Demarco was an okay performer. Dolphins commit suicide. Blue Jays are winning this year. Ugh, like I care. Dazed, I stared into the abyss of the baseball game on a nearby TV. What other stuff was there to cover? Any appetite for a kiss was left dry with an image of Peter the Bottlenose dolphin, heartbroken in a tank where he stopped breathing on purpose. I could relate; stuck in a situation society pushed us into. I stared blankly. I fell into the romantic script of adults on a date together. Asking questions like a woman might do in a Hollywood blockbuster. So, where did you grow up? What do you do for a living? His answers revealed the narrative behind his mannerisms and interests. Raised in Toronto. Expectations. The “real” world. Went to India once. Now he’s an artist. Figuratively speaking. Theoretically speaking. Whatever. Return to the farm. Fuck capitalism. Opinions. Reciprocate. Nod. Yeah, sure.

Throwing questions like a tennis ball against a wall, I forget that the ball will bounce back. When the questions are directed at me, I’m tempted to reply with white lies. God, the truth is boring. I don’t want to tell him any more than I need to. So instead I conspire the plot twist of a fake identity. Maybe I’ll say I’m a Financial Analyst. Cat person. Vegan. Feminist. Crossfit lover. Religious. Cigarette smoker. Tired. Restless. Artist. Walker. Political. Sensitive. I feel the buzz of the first beer with the combinations I glue together. A vegan who loves Crossfit. A beauty expert on a budget. A desperate painter. A boring white girl. A right-wing stickler. A bookworm with a fetish for face slaps. I digressed. He persists. I find middle ground. Skipping details. Highlighting others. I relay a version of my past that’s attractive. Fine-tuned. A fake. Ugh, I hate this. Explaining my personality isn’t my thing.

I imagined inviting guest speakers on a late-night talk show, Guess Her Personality. In a runway of flashing red lights, a close girlfriend of mine appears under spotlight: “Sarah isn’t as tough as she looks; she cried in 2011 when she got bed bugs.” An old boss from the past grabs the microphone to criticize my lack of detail. Specifically, the spelling mistake in the subject line back in the spring of 2013. He adds under his breath, “She can’t spell for shit.” Ouch, that one hurt. Meanwhile, I string together a personality of a well-rounded woman; he nods approvingly at me. Educated. Traveller. Productive. I think about the real things I’m trying to say: the parts I erased in my progression of Sarah’s character. The ticks. Self-consciousness. The obsessive compulsive behaviour. The uncertainty. He stops to sprinkle shared experience. “Oh, I think I went there once.” We suddenly have things in common. I wait for him to drop another reminder that we’re a good couple. I smile again. On demand.

Two minutes turns into twenty. Twenty into forty. Forty into an hour.

Looking back to this night, I stayed at the bar with him to be polite. I listened, followed direction and fell back into the distance like a girlfriend blending into wallpaper. I pretended to be interested in dolphin suicide. Smiled behind discomfort. Laughed on cue. I could have ended the date early, paid my bill and left the bar. But instead I chose powerlessness and I am angry about it. And in this date of first and last, I discovered something new about myself: I am a passive woman with zero interest in my own story.

Oh, and I want my two minutes back.