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Big Daddy B. and I had been friends since middle school, but hadn't seen each other for a few years, despite living in the same town and attending the same university. Such is the nature of our friendship. We're a little too intense for each other, so we need spells of a year or two or five every now and then to cool off. We ended one of those periods in January, 1996, and I've always felt our reunion was my reward for having gone through THE WORST DATE IN MY ENTIRE LIFE, which happened - I honestly can't believe this - a decade ago this week.

His name was Tom, and his last name was the same as my mom's maiden name. I can't recall how we met. For awhile that January, I was seeing four different guys and I don't recall where he fit in. I just remember the date. It was hastily planned, one of those, "Hey. You wanna grab dinner tonight?" deals. Since Boy #1, Boy #2, and/or Boy #3 hadn't already claimed me for that evening, and I was getting used to having my dinner purchased for me, I bit.

Tom wasn't exactly what I considered physically attractive, but he was smart and seemed interesting, and I've always been good with two out of three on the smart/interesting/hot triumverant. He had a really thick, dark beard and nerdy horn-rimmed glasses which, with the right interesting personality, can be assets. But I digress.

We hit my favorite little Italian cafe for some live music and pasta. A side note: can I say just how much I miss Bambino's? I really, really do. I miss being able to walk there from my apartment. I miss being 22 years old and being wooed by Rocket, the musician 18 years my senior. During a performance at Bambino's, he once sang "Brown-Eyed Girl" to me. "This song's for the beautiful redhead at the bar," he said. I sat on my barstool, sucking down a bottle of Bud, and yelled, "My eyes are green, you old fart!" While my life is infinitely better, and I'm a much better person now than I was then, I do get a little nostalgic for those days when my behavior earned me a song written in my (dis)honor - "Hurricane Robin". Every woman should have a song written about who she was when she was a wicked 22-year-old. But I'm digressing again, definitely a sign that I'm a decade past my wild days.

ANYWAY, Tom and I had dinner at Bambino's. We were about five minutes into our entrees when I noticed a big glob of Alfredo sauce lodged in his beard. I tried to tell him, but he wouldn't shut the hell up long enough for me to get a word in edgewise.

The entire time we were at Bambino's, that sauce just sat there. Congealing. Quivering with every blah blah blah de blah blah word that came out of his mouth. If it had been marinara, it might not have bothered me as much. If it had been an olive oil-coated jumbo prawn, it might not have bothered me as much. But it was Alfredo. Greasy, slimy, white Alfredo. And oh my God, do you know what it looked like? Do you? Well, I don't think I have to tell you. Please don't make me tell you what it looked like. Because you know what it looked like.

About an hour after the Alfredo blob first appeared, we headed back to my place. Somewhere during the drive, the glob disappeared. No, I don't want to know what happened to it, either.

He walked me to my door, where I intended to thank him for dinner and beat a hasty retreat. I mean, I had three other guys in my stable; I had every intention of putting this one out to pasture.

Somehow, he wound up in my apartment. Where we sat on my couch.

For four fucking hours.

Until well after 2 a.m.

For one of those hours - a full hour, my friends! I know because I fucking timed it! - we did nothing but watch my cat play with a stray sock, and discuss the cat's sock-hunting techniques.

By the three and a half hour mark, I was sitting, ne, wedged, at the far end of the couch, sending every non-verbal, "Take your faux-semen-covered chin and go home NOW!" non-verbal signal I could muster while he droned on and on and on and on until I heard two words that got my attention:

"My wife."

"You're wife???"

He smiled slyly.

"What do you mean, wife? You're married?" I hissed, finally seeing a socially acceptable opportunity to scream, "Get out of my house, you troglodyte!"

He kept smiling. "I'm not married. Well, not anymore."

"Divorced?"

"No," still smiling. "Guess again."

"Seperated?"

"Nope. I'm a widower."

Well, then.

I don't know what's worse: the fact that we played a guessing game that could have been called "Guess How My Wife Became My Former Wife", or the fact that he kept that fucking grin on his face the entire time.

Oh my God. He's grinning. Grinning like a maniac. He killed her. I bet he fucking killed her.

And when you start entertaining thoughts that your "date" may have possibly offed his first wife, that's when it's time to officially call it a night.*

How does this pertain to my friendship with Big Daddy B.? Turns out, Tom and Big Daddy were co-workers. The following Monday, Tom went to work, bragging about his date with a cinematographer (I was an entry-level video producer). Somehow, it came out that it was me, thus leading to a reunion with my old pal, my reward for my night with the cum-faced wife-killer.

*I have no problem with young widowers, and I did feel horrible for his loss. But the fact that my brain immediately jumped from sympathy to, "Oh my God, I'll bet he did it!" was quite telling.