I shouldn’t have said that.

Usually I play the straight man in these encounters. I’m not sure if it was the several glasses of wine or the bad previous dates that turned me into the psycho of our couple, but he was a perfectly normal guy making perfectly normal conversation. Sure, we weren’t clicking and he was going on and on about a recent trip to Vermont, but that was hardly justification for my breaking out the roadkill dinner story.

It happened in high school. One of my friends lived on a street that was high traffic but close to a forest. Her father was a not terribly successful hunter. So, one day when an unlucky motorist hit an unlucky deer that had emerged from the woods, my friend’s dad considered himself lucky that the carcass had landed outside their front door. He did what any suburban caveman would do and strung the deer up in the garage to gut, clean and butcher. My friend was a little shocked when she went to get in her car later that morning.

My speed date was a lot shocked by my unusual taste in small talk. I’ve never seen someone so happy to hear the switching whistle. I don’t think we’ll be sharing a piece of venison jerky anytime soon.