You twiddled your thumbs nervously, anxiously even, waiting for time to pass. Sitting in the passenger's seat of your mother's old four door Toyota. It was 15 year old stick shift, with the dark interior peeling at the roof, and a stale scent. You always told your mom that she should get a new one, but she'd shake her head,

"It still runs great," Was her argument. It was probably the emotional attachment that prompted her to keep it. It wasn't like your mother was so poor she had to make a Gmail to eat the spam.

She pulled up to a red light and slowed to a stop. Your mom removed her hand from the shift, and placed in on your fidgeting hands.

"Look, honey, I know you're nervous, but Mr. Beilschmidt is a very nice man. He can be a bit," She paused and placed her hand back on to the shift, continuing driving after the light changed, "Ah, well, he can be a bit full of himself, and childish, and a lot of other things. He means well. I think you two could get along if you give him a chance."

You stayed silent, and folded your arms across your chest. You have small memories here and there of your biological father, but nothing to significant. Your mom tends to not talk about him.

Your mother had been dating out of the dating game for many years, and only in the recent has she been back in it. How you loathed it. It was one thing to hear about your one friend's relationship issues, but another about your mother's. Her boyfriends would swagger in like they owned the place, put their arm around you and say, "Call me daddy." As subtly creepy and forward that was; all you had to do was tell your mom that you didn't like them, and she'd do away with her current boyfriend. Even if they were decent guys, and would have made decent fathers. You just weren't ready for this commitment. But when would you be?

You sigh and look up from your inner monologue and see the restaurant your mother wanted to meet this, so called, air-quoted by yourself, "Gilbert Beilschmidt"

Whoever he exactly was, they were meeting at an Olive Garden. If that didn't raise a red flag, you weren't sure what else would. Though you could feel the tension radiating off your mother, probably about how he was the next rejection. A small, pitiful amount of guilt swelled in your chest when you were walking to the entrance; your mom was so stupidly distracted that she got hit by a parked car.

When you entered the "Italian" restaurant, the stereotype music and people talking blasted your ears, while the overwhelming scent of FOOD filled your soul.

You looked to the left of where a perky hostess with the mostess texted on her phone, to see your mom hugging an albino man. A young albino man… A too-young-for-your-mother albino man. They pulled apart and he looked over at you.

"Zhis must be the awesome kid you vere talking about!" His voice was so nasally, it was like Britney Spears and Madonna made a child. The size difference may not have been significant but his out aura was towering over you. You cringed internally so hard you wanted to pull your collar, and say "Is it me, or is it getting a little social in here?"

The hostess bubbly bounced over to the situation you wished to escape, "Beilschmidt, party of three?"

"That's us!" Your mother smiled endearingly at both you and Gilbert.

"Follow me, please!" The hostess motioned in the direction she began walking.

She sat the group at a booth. Where the visible age on your mother's face, decades of wear and tear, her new boyfriend seemed to radiate youth.

You tastefully asked, "What are you, twelve?"