It was a Friday . . .

. . . and the night of our third date.

I was expecting her for dinner around seven. As I rode on the 147-northbound from the loop, I planned out the different times I should start preparing the various courses. Estimating the traffic and what time she'd arrive, to the minute, so that the table would be in order by the time I took her coat.

As I sat aboard that one-forty-seven, thinking of a make-shift place mat, I received a text. It was from a friend asking if I had any plans for the evening. I responded as any man on the cusp of love would.

Sorry [redacted]. I've got some 'tang coming over to my place for dinner. I'll be around tomorrow. I'll call [redacted] to see if he wants to hang out. It'll be like a sticom.

Within a moment, my hip vibrated at the arrival of another text.

It's from her.

Charming, dude.

I smile and put the phone back. "Silly girl," I thought. "She must have intended that mobile communici for another ... unless!"

I feverishly reviewed the sent messages from my outbox. And sure enough, the text I intended for my friend had been erroneously sent to the tang I had lined up for the evening.

My mind shifted into damage control mode. I fired off a concise, yet heartfelt explanation. In less than 250 characters I told that were she ever to meet my friends, she'd have to laugh at the nature of the message. None of my friends or the company I keep are of the type to use such rogue language (we totally are). In that text, I was making fun of current vernacular, and I was making fun of ourselves, the gallant yet hip cynics (I totally wasn't).

So do I get a pass on this one?

I waited for a response, thinking I might not ever hear from her again. Maybe my action was unforgivable. In those words, perchance she saw a man so crass and vulgar. One who'd been able to slyly dupe her into this, our third date. Would she even give me the satisfaction of a "fuck-off," or would she let me wither on the vine.

Okay, but only because I have nothing else planned for tonight.

Close.

As the bus cruised along Lake Shore Drive, I thought how fortunate it was that I chose 'tang. Had it been any other word from my rich lexicon (slash, gash, trim, pooner, skank, beaver, beaver-face, poon-skanked-beaverface), it would have ended right there in that window seat.

Five hours later, I sealed the deal.