SCENE AND HEARD

We're confident that Anthony Harris has been on many successful dates. Today, however, he writes about two less-happy outcomes.

No Chance of Stealing His Heart

We took the same bus in to work every day. She was attractive, intelligent, witty and available, and I would have quickly asked her out had she been black. But she was white, so the move required considerable thought.

I polled my friends. Among the brothers, the consensus was a nonchalant "Why not?" Among the sisters, it lay midway between an apprehensive "Why?" and an anxious "Please don't!"

I asked her out on a Friday date anyway. She liked the dinner, the play and, it seemed, me. On her front stoop, there was an awkward moment as we silently considered what to do next. I pointed out a nearly flat tire on the car in her driveway. She said she'd get her dad to fix it. Ending the small talk, she hugged me, kissed me on the cheek and said goodnight.

Not wanting to appear too eager, I decided to wait until our Monday commute to talk again. She wasn't on the bus, but she called me at work and invited me to join her for coffee.

She took two sips from her latte, then got straight to the point. "My car was taken from my driveway Saturday night. Did you steal it?"

No one said it would be easy to bridge the racial divide.

First Glance: No Chance

Our date was an egalitarian affair: She chose the movie; I picked the restaurant. The movie was sold out. The date's success hinged on dinner. It was a nice restaurant, known for steaks, a difficult entree to get wrong.

We didn't get that far.

Halfway through her salad, she found a rubber band floating among the croutons in a pool of dressing at the bottom of the bowl. A picky type, she felt sick. The waiter apologized and brought another salad, free of charge. This time, she found the rubber band up top, undisguised, binding a clump of dirty lettuce. Her appetite gone, she said it was time to leave. I tried to persuade her to stay. There are two types of people in the world, I argued, those who give second chances and those who don't.

A second-chance type of guy, I once saw an insect floating in a glass of iced lemonade served in my favorite barbecue joint. After a long probation, I went back, only to be served another insect, this time stewed in a side order of collards.

Compared with those experiences, I pleaded, the rubber bands were insignificant slights that shouldn't be allowed to ruin our first evening out. Not surprisingly, that argument didn't persuade her to give the entree a chance. When I called a few days later, she wasn't in. She never returned my call.

She wasn't the type who gave second chances.

-- Anthony E. Harris, Northwest Washington