Just promise to never wait.

He sprays spit when he talks, his hands slicing the air with soft pops as he babbles in Greek (or something similarly foreign to your ears) about molecules and amoebas and cyanide because the half-sick smile plastered to your face means you must be listening.  You must be intrigued.  The two slices of lamb you just swallowed is weighing down on your bladder and sweat is dripping down your spine but you were raised to never be rude and it would be rude to interrupt him, you just know that it would be, so you fidget in your seat.  You keep your mouth shut.

He's moved on to jokes by the time dessert has arrived and he's got a way of stopping awkwardly, abruptly, just before the punch line, as if he expects you to fling yourself from your seat and exclaim it before he does.  When you don't, he smiles nervously and sprays the table with more spit as he rushes to the end, his tongue going what must be one-twenty while your brain is still slugging along at a slow Ineedtopee rate.  It leaves you dizzy; it makes your head pound.  You have to pee and you wonder how his mouth hasn't turned into the Sahara desert by now, he hasn't had anything to drink for at least half an hour.  And then, in the midst of your cross-legged discomfort, it happens.  He stops talking.

And he's looking at you, his lips pursed halfway into a kiss though you can't stand to think about giving him one after the Greek he's been spewing for the last forty minutes.  Your bladder is threatening to explode and while yellow might look good seeping across the clean tile floor, you aren't sure you want the smell of it to conceal the chocolate coating the air.  Please, please, you beg him with your cheetah-slit eyes, just shut up and ask for the check so I can go pee!  But he's still looking at you, his eyebrows quirked in what you think is annoyance, so you ask him if he could repeat the question.  And he does.

He asks you about college and which you preferred:  jocks or nerds?  And you open your mouth to tell him you can't afford it just yet, you haven't even applied, but the pressure on your gut is excruciating.  The only answer he gets is a moan.

And maybe, you think as you bolt from your chair, he'll pay the bill and be gone, his cute horn-rimmed glasses smudged by the numerous times he pushed them back up his nose.  Maybe he'll think that you're running away, it might not be the first time he's scared women from the room, but you really can't hold it much longer.  You have to go, rude or not.

After, you'll regret waiting so long.  You'll feel foolish and young.  But he'll smile as you slide back into your seat and he'll ask you if you're feeling better and suddenly, he won't be speaking in Greek (or something like it) anymore.  You'll notice his dimples and the vivid beach-sand of his eyes and you'll see he has Donald Duck on his tie and he'll make a joke, just one simple one-liner, and your heart will stop.  Suddenly, you'll remember why you asked him out to begin with.

After, you'll realize how stupid life is, that so much annoyance can build up from something so small, and you'll kiss him on the cheek when he drops you at your door and you'll promise yourself to never wait so long to go pee again, although you know that someday, you will.  That's just the way that life goes.