Online dating.

Never in my life have I ever desired kids.  It seems that walking around with a child in one arm, woman in the other would be openly identifying myself with intercourse.   I'd like to think of my life as a palindrome, ending with a orgasm, starting with one, having many, many in-between. My  ideal life would be more like a crossword puzzle than a palindrome.  As we could see how it really is in most bars the night before Thanksgiving. I hit the bar, ordering myself a shot of Italktoomuch with a beer back.  I see you. Right at the end of the restaurant, red lipstick, black and white, sipping a dry I'll call you . Priceless.
Normally a male in a pre-coital stupor will opt for unwavering pity hosting an entendre of personality mutilation humorous self deprecations and jokes with no punch lines. .  However, the man next to me is slurping down his "Snooty English" talking the ear off of the desk jockey thirty something.   She just needs one more exercise machine, one more fat free yogurt, one more program to tape when she's at work, one more perfect man.
7 Down.
  I've passed about seven tables. Still there.  She has a black skirt.
  3 across.
The guy at the last table is shorter than his date.  I laugh to myself knowing the impending dysfunction.  Face plant.
  5 across. 
What does it take?   That's answered by 4 down.
I take my seat.   She's ordered salad. - 4 down and across
Whoever said "The pen is mightier" has never courted a salad eater.  She's quick, guiltless, Vegetarian. While not a day has passed that I've shed more blood than I've consumed.
Nothing a drink couldn't fix.   Alcohol  11 across.
Its been only six drinks and I'm in the bathroom.  Pants are down.  Six drinks.  Right now.  I'm shorter than my date and my face plant is the toilet.   Where's my shoe? My keys lay in embedded in the corner, still shaking for dear life from the initial shock.  She hasn't moved.  Don't sit on that sink.  Don't make it easy for me to see your black roots in the mirror behind you.   Hangover.  1 Down. Don't stare at me.  Don't smoke that cigarette.  Don't make any effort not to look at my face.  Don't cross your legs over and over, don't fuck me in the bathroom, don't insist that you need this, don't tell me you want me, don't slip his ring into your purse, don't walk out that door.   She needed my time.  All that good willed vegetarianism and what she needed was sex.  I wonder if she'll tell our child how much alcohol it took to conceive him. We need a marriage counselor. Bad.
9 across.