When he said he would “fly me to the moon,” I thought he was speaking metaphorically. Instead, he meant that he wanted to take me to see the Channing Tatum/Scarlett Johansson movie. I said, “Sure.” Why not? I get wet for Magic Mike as much as the next basic bitch. Maybe he was humoring me that way. Or maybe he was one of those guys who still had a thing for Scarlett Johansson—even though that “fetish” hadn’t really been in vogue for a while. However “deep” his reasons were, I agreed to the date. The chance to be “flown to the moon.”

It was a romantic notion, one that goes at least as far back as Jimmy Stewart telling Donna Reed in It’s A Wonderful Life, “What is it you want, Mary? What do you want? You want the moon? Just say the word and I’ll throw a lasso around it and pull it down. Hey. That’s a pretty good idea. I’ll give you the moon, Mary.” A charming thought. One that girls of Reed’s era could still buy into. Could still believe that men were “gods”—their Adam-ly raison d’être. Well, needless to say, Reed’s era has long been over. The myths about men and what they’re capable of debunked. Probably around the time “conspiracy theorists” were touting that the moon landing was staged. Completely faked. Which, incidentally, is what Fly Me to the Moon is all about…as I learned after Terrence told me that was what we were going to see for our first date.

He also told me that he would be bringing a suitcase along, and not to judge him for it. He had to go to a hotel near the airport that night in order to be on time for an early flight the next morning. I don’t usually make a habit of going on first dates with people who are about to leave town for a while. And he did warn me several times before we agreed to meet that he had this month-long trip to Croatia planned from the end of July to the end of August. I, alas, was not flush enough to go anywhere this summer, which had made an already scant expatriate dating pool even scantier. Thus, who was I to turn down this limited opportunity to kindle the brief spark of a summer romance? Yes, I knew I was setting myself up for heartache if I actually liked him and he then disappeared into a vacation that would probably turn into a fuckfest. But I was also setting myself up for success if I hated him and then never had to see him again. I was hoping for the latter. I just wanted a one-night (or one-evening) distraction, really. A chance to merely flirt with romance. Because “God” knows that shit wears off faster and faster these days.

Even so, I was already projecting my false ideals onto Terrence about how he seemed “different” from the other guys I’d “dabbled with.” Of course I knew that couldn’t possibly be true. That he would still invariably disappoint me. And he proceeded to do exactly that from the moment we met in the lobby of the theater. After we said our hellos, we went over to the touchscreen that had become a substitute for all human contact. As he started to buy the tickets, his suitcase was clocked by one of the few human employees, who promptly approached us to inform Terrence that he would not be allowed into the theater with any such baggage. So much for being “flown to the moon.” Terrence couldn’t even “fly” me to an auditorium in a movie theater.

The sudden change of plan was the sort of thing that gave me emotional whiplash. And it was hard for me to recalibrate once I had gotten it into my mind that I was going to be doing something specific, only for that something to be ripped away at the drop of a hat (or suitcase). Thus, when Terrence suggested that we go get coffee instead, I found myself still reeling from the abrupt shift in the nature of our date. Regardless, I did my best to put on the show of being a “normal” person who wasn’t at all annoyed by how he had fucked over our moviegoing experience. Or lack thereof now.

I smiled and sipped the coffee I had ordered, laughing where expected and nodding “thoughtfully” during other moments. I even obliged him when he insisted on ordering and sharing a fruit salad. A salade de fruits, as the French call it, which was listed in the dessert section of the menu. In my mind, it actually didn’t look or sound that bad. I was picturing a well-presented plate of more decadence-oriented fruits—strawberries, blueberries, raspberries…maybe even a passionfruit. All topped with a dollop of whipped cream, perhaps. Or maybe it would be placed on the side. What I was definitely not expecting was what looked like the shat-out stylings of fruit from a can, featuring, in theory, orange and pineapple slices that, for whatever reason, possessed the same beige-ish, lusterless color.

I could barely conceal my disgust as Terrence dug in with the gusto of a golden retriever doing, well, just about anything. He barely registered my contempt, assuming that any dissatisfaction I might be exuding was merely because he was “hogging” it.

“Oh,” he said. “Do you want more of the pineapple?”

“No thanks,” I replied, my voice as tight as my entire body. The irritation I felt was physically manifesting in the form of rigidity. The body keeps the score and all that.

Meanwhile, the server, an older woman who had either been working there for ages or was the proprietor, felt the need to add a layer of “French performance” to the outing by asking if we were enjoying sharing our très romantique “fruit plate.” I wanted to tell her that this so-called fruit plate was the antithesis of romantique, but I doubted her brain would have “received” the insult anyway. As for the performative air I referred to, it also extended to suddenly cracking down on people trying to go into a movie theater with a suitcase. All part of “increased security measures” during the Olympics, to be sure. No longer was it kosher to trust people, to live and let live—and certainly not to let someone with a suitcase infiltrate a public area that wasn’t an airport.

So while the French woman smiled and put on all the appearances of the stereotype Americans were expecting that Olympic summer, her plastered-on grin belied the truth: the French didn’t trust anyone farther than they could throw them (no Olympic shotput pun intended). And I didn’t trust Terrence any longer to be capable of delivering on his big promises of romance. Accordingly, when he finished the fruit plate, I took it as my chance to leave, not even bothering to give some phony, elaborate excuse as to why. I couldn’t be bothered. I decided I had to fly my own damn self to the moon, so to speak. He wasn’t going to stop me with his baggage both literal and figurative.

Thus, I caught the next showing of Fly Me to the Moon. It wasn’t bad…for a romantic film. Though I’d seen better. It’s A Wonderful Life, for example. But you couldn’t expect too much from anything these days—not from men, fruit plates or even the ability to sit somewhere for a few hours with a suitcase in hand sans suspicion.