It was the worst evening ever. I’d finally agreed to allow the French man to take me out on a date. It all began nice enough. We dined at Café Moustache, and he seemed quite amiable. The reservation was at 7pm, and he arrived at my door promptly at 6:30pm. Given that he was someone I had simply met out one day whilst out and about, although I allowed him into the building, I didn’t invite him into my place. It was enough that I had given him my address.
Our conversation on the way to the restaurant revealed his full name is Martial Lièvremont Agapov. He’s French on his mother’s side, Russian on his Father's.
Turns out, he planned that we take in a double feature of Goncharov and The Last Temptation of Christ after dinner. There was a special showing at the old theatre downtown, and this was the last weekend it would screen. He seemed quite excited. We ordered dessert, but he asked the waiter to pack it nicely. His plan was to smuggle it into the art deco theatre along with his rather large yet elegant flask of really fine cognac.
If he had told me his film selection before picking me up, I would have declined the date altogether, as well as his calls. I vowed that I would never again in life see that fucking film Goncharov. Despite being a classic, it brought back too many memories. Memories of good times, and memories of things I’d rather forget...
That goddamned film is a permanent reminder of the hazards of moonlighting in Vegas.
