"Sorry, what was your name again?" I asked, with a sinking feeling of dread. It was one of those situations where I—stupidly—took the shadchan's word for it, sans profile. She had told me of his Hebrew name; however, when he called, he had identified himself by his secular nickname.
"Stormtrooper!" he repeated cheerfully.
Oh, shoot. I had initially looked forward to this date, but I now expected the worst. An internal Pollyanna voice continued to chirp sweet nothings, but my high hopes had nose-dived.
You see, this isn't the first Stormtrooper I've gone out with.
There was the original Stormtrooper, who had initially wooed me tender then opted for emotional abuse, at which point I gave the sociopath ye old heave-ho.
Then there was Stormtrooper II, who casually tossed me out of the bar he had selected after 45 minutes of conversation, claiming an appointment.
And here was Stormtrooper III. Ergo the Imperial March.
Well, he wasn't of epic-villain proportions . . . but I would rather have not spent an evening listening to how awesome his friend's wife is.
Not any Tom, Harry, or Dick then . . .