when it all goes wrong

Today I’m heading to Tate Modern to see a new stranger : 20, African descend, NY vibe - I expect this to be a very relaxing rendezvous.

*** few hours later***

Today’s date was a waste of time. It is a pity that such high percentage of strangers I meet is so far behind on the intelligence scale.

We met at the Tate Modern gift shop, (he was 50 minutes late…shame), and then we went to see the gallery, or better said, I forced him to take a walk among the displays. “WTF is this shit” is probably the most accurate summary of his input.
Strangely, I catch myself comparing multiple aspects of the evening to the ones with C., and as it progresses I started getting a little sentimental. 
To my disappointment, Dalí’s work, the one I genuinely wanted to see is not on display at the time, so I decided not to torture my companion any longer. We walked across the bridge, hopelessly trying to push through the mass of people. Soon I realized that the communication skills of this fella are simply non existent. Maybe it was caused by his incomprehensible accent, but it was only when we arrived at the Goodge street and took turn into sparingly lit street with poorly constructed cheap flats that I realized what I’ve gotten myself into. That sometime during our “conversation” I unknowingly agreed to crash his flat for a few hours.

Somebody. Help.