by Leslie Diana

My expectations for the date were low. If I’m being honest, I only swiped right because I was intrigued by his old-world pizazz. Most men my age are poor dressers, walking around like slovenly tech startup CEOs in sweatpants and polos. So when I arrived at the restaurant, I was extremely pleased to see him wearing the silken top hat from his profile pictures.

The hostess tried to seat us in the back, away from other diners. She sheepishly explained that it was a necessary precaution in case anyone had a peanut allergy. It was nothing personal, she promised. Mr. Peanut (I still hadn’t learned his first name), tucked his fashionably gloved hand on his hip and leaned rakishly on his walking stick. Charmed, the hostess blushed and sputtered out an apology while ushering us to a new table. Maybe my date’s elegance extended beyond his style.

The beguiled hostess handed both of us menus, but the handsome legume pushed mine away. He held up a willowy finger as she turned to leave. His brow furrowed, cementing his golden monocle into its stately eye crease. “The young lady will have the Oysters Rockefeller and a glass of Chablis. I’ll do the same.” He pushed out a satisfied sigh and the hostess scurried off with our orders. “I have to say, I usually don’t enjoy shellfish,” I said. “You’ll like these,” he replied with an impish wink. For some reason, I believed him.

He leaned in toward me, the hull of his body scraping against the table. “So. What are your interests, Natalia?” he asked. “My name is Amanda,” I said. He squinted. “You’re spunky,” he nodded approvingly. “I like that.” I felt my cheeks growing warm. It had been a long time since I went on a date with someone so complimentary.

“Well, I like to work out. Health is super important to me,” I began. “Do you run or anything?” I asked as I transferred the nervous sweat from my palms onto my pants. Mr. Peanut chuckled. “The only thing worth exercising is the mind,” he said, tapping the upper part of his shell. “Why do you think my husk is so big, but my limbs are so small?” He reached across the table and took my hand. The flakes of salt on his hand absorbed the moisture on mine.

“Natalia… I usually don’t share this with people. But I’ll let you in on a little secret: My first name is Percival.” I smiled. I couldn’t believe he was being so open with me. On our first date! I felt special. It might seem as though I was being love bombed, that this was all too good to be true. But Percival Peanut is one-of-a-kind. I knew that what I was experiencing was unique.

“Percival,” I said. “What are you looking for in a relationship?” “Please refer to me as Mr. Peanut when we’re in public,” he started. “It’s a respect thing.” I nodded quickly. “But to answer your question, I’m looking for someone just like you.”

I felt my cheeks turning crimson again. “Wow. Good. Cause I’m looking for a long-term relationship. I’m not interested in casual dating.” “I’m not either,” the beautiful peanut replied. “But I should tell you, being my partner is a daunting task.”

“How so?” I queried. “Well for starters, you’ll need to collect the weekly tithes from my subordinates.” I must have looked confused. “Don’t worry,” Mr. Peanut continued. “You won’t have to do any number crunching. My accountant (the Monopoly Man) handles all that. I’ll also need you to double as my videographer.”

“Your videographer? For what?”

“When I perform miracles, and such. It’s good to have them documented, for recruitment materials.”

“Miracles?!”

Mr. Peanut slurped back an oyster and sucked his teeth. “I typically do one to two a week. You know, make a wheelchair bound person walk again, heal festering wounds with my touch, get a relit cigar to taste the same as a fresh one… the list goes on.”

“Are you a pastor?”

He chuckled humorlessly. “I supposed in a sense I am.” He adjusted his monocle. It had fogged up a bit from the hot spinach on the oysters. “I’m a pastor of Peanut, a tsar of Peanut, hell, a god of Peanut.” He paused for a weighty moment. “Which brings me to my next question: Are you a believer?”

I forget what my exact response was, but what I do know is that I’m writing this from the inside of Mr. Peanut’s peanut tin cathedral. I have a room behind the apse that I share with a few of his other partners. I know what you’re thinking; but I’d rather be in a polyamorous relationship with an exceptional being rather than be in a monogamous one with a sandal-wearing fool.

Besides, we’re treated even better than his standard congregants. We can send letters to our families (though the only “ink” we have is peanut oil, so it’s a bit tricky), and we’re allowed to eat other legumes once a month (though beans make me gassy, so I just stick to peanuts). I will say, if I had known that our date would be the last time I’d eat non-legumes, I would have pushed back more on the Oysters Rockefeller.