It isn't one of Kurt's brightest ideas.

He should really man up and admit this isn't going to work out; be upfront about it, and say it to the man's face. But he's so tired of the bachelor's grind – going to bars, faithfully tending his Match.com profile, the endless blind dates set up by well-meaning friends, the rejecting and the rejections - that he can't face one more.

Kurt had had high hopes for this one, too. Steve is the doctor of his best friend Rachel's three-year-old boy. He and Kurt apparently had plenty of things in common – a love of theater, an appreciation for fine dining, a passion for fashion. And Kurt thought that dating a pediatrician would be fascinating. After summarizing the details of his own life, maybe his date would talk about the struggles of getting through medical school, tossing in a couple of whimsical stories about the joys (quote/unquote) of working with children - baby's first shots where the parents cried more than the infant, or the tale of a precocious little girl who demanded he put a Band-Aid on her teddy bear before he helped her (the way a young Kurt had done to his doctor when he was around four). But apparently, Steve's specialty was pediatric surgery, and he loved to talk shop. Every tidbit of conversation was inappropriate for dinner and graphic in nature, appendectomy this and tonsillectomy that, abscesses and pus and untreated sores, until Kurt's face turned as green as his salad, and he couldn't look at his steak anymore.

Kurt excused himself and raced to the bathroom to escape anymore talk of childhood diseases more than fifteen minutes ago, but now he's trapped, with no way out.

He pictures the lay out of the bistro in his mind. There has to be a back way in and out of this place. All restaurants have an exit through the kitchen, right? But unfortunately, the bathroom, the kitchen, and the front door are all in full view of their table.

Plus, the restaurant only has twenty-eight tables total, so it would be kind of obvious if he tried to leave.

Kurt turns on the cold water, splashes it on his face, and scolds himself to think, think, think! He's an intelligent man. He can come up with a way out of this. Could he call someone to come down to the restaurant and make an excuse for him? Not likely, not on short notice. Rachel wouldn't be able to find a sitter, and Santana and Brittany are in the chorus of a show. No one else he knows is in town at the moment.

He could look up one of those services that make fake emergency calls to your cell phone to get you out of dates, but that would mean going back out there, and the way his hands lock around the lip of the sink every time he thinks about taking a step outside the bathroom door leads him to believe that isn't happening.

Kurt looks at himself in the mirror, looks into his eyes and reminds himself to calm down, slow his breathing, that he'll find a solution. And suddenly, there it is. In the reflection of the mirror, he sees what might be his only way out – a window, the only window in here, propped open enough that he'd be able to fit through. It's kind of high, sort of narrow, a definite last resort. But what other choice does he have?

Does he really have to resort to jumping out a window? He's already been in there twenty minutes, and his date hasn't come to check on him. Maybe the man got the hint and left (hopefully after paying what's close to a hundred dollar dinner check). And that's another thing - what would his father think if he found out his son had dined and dashed?

Truthfully, he'd probably laugh for a week, and text Kurt memes that poked fun at this particular situation (his father's new thing since he recently discovered Tumblr).

Kurt tests his luck, opening the bathroom door a crack, praying silently don't be there, don't be there, don't be there.

But nope. There he is, Dr. Steve Milori, talking to the waiter, telling him about some surgical procedure because he makes a cutting motion across his stomach with a butter knife. The poor waiter, weighed down by a tray of soup bowls, nods politely, but looks like he may vomit in the soup tureen.

Window it is.

Kurt shelves the nagging feeling that he might be perpetuating the most pathetic trope in the dating world, and starts constructing a ladder to the window. There's not much in there – a small, step stool underneath the sink; a short, square plastic trash can that looks less than steady; another taller trash can, dented along one side, that looks like someone else already used it to make a break for freedom; and, of course, the toilet and the sink, both completely unmovable.

Kurt does some quick engineering in his head and figures that if turns the small trash can over onto the step stool, he might gain the height he needs to grab the lip of the window and hoist himself up, which would eliminate using the dented trash can. He doesn't like the odds that he won't slip, fall, and crack his head open. He's not so much worried about doing any permanent damage, but rather having to explain to his date why he's lying on the bathroom floor, covered in trash, and bleeding profusely.

Kurt pushes the stool up against the wall with his foot. He dumps the trash from the small trash can into it's larger counterpart, and sets it on the stool, centering it as best he can to keep it from wobbling. With a hand on the wall for support, he puts a foot on the trash can and attempts to pull himself up. It wobbles back and forth rapidly, then gives one backward tip that almost sends Kurt flying. He gasps, “Fuck!” and bites his tongue, hoping that no one outside heard him. He figures out quickly that this isn't going to work the way he had planned, and makes a desperate leap for the window, using all his upper body strength and the skill he has left over from four years of high school cheerleading to get him halfway through.

Kurt shudders when the cold air hits his skin, in part from the change in temperature, but mostly from a fear of death. He looks down. It's too dark to see into the alley, but he had parked his Navigator in the lot across the way. He's pretty sure he remembers a dumpster underneath this window. He looks out into the rows of cars, and spots his SUV. Now he's a little more sure. Worst case scenario, he lands in food trash, probably not rotten since it's still the dinner rush. Though actually, that's not the worst case scenario. Worst case scenario, he misses the dumpster altogether, hits the pavement, and breaks his leg, but he's trying to stay positive. Besides, at this moment, when his anxiety-ridden mind feels that his only logical route out is through the metaphorical rabbit hole, that's a chance he's willing to take.

He swings his right leg over till he's straddling the narrow sill, nearly bent in half laterally by the metal lip of the window frame. He balances there, the dull edge digging into his sternum, his belly, and his crotch, but he can't make himself jump. He decides he'll need to trick himself into it. He forces himself to relax, teeter-tottering back and forth, back and forth, not trying to think of the possible outcome, just trying to work his way to the right far enough that he knocks himself off-kilter.

Fate lends a hand in the form of a drunk passerby yelling, “Hey! Hey, look there! There's a guy in the window!” Kurt panics, thinking he's been spotted by someone who assumes he's trying to break in to the busy restaurant and not out. He fumbles, he flails. He leans, starts falling head first, and scrambles to get a hold. He hears a distant, “No! No, wait!” and his fingers slip. There's three seconds of cold wind and a sinking feeling in his stomach before he lands on his ass, thankfully in the dumpster, surrounded by the smell of not-too-rank food, the squish of something under his body that he thinks might be mashed cauliflower, and a scream.

“Ouch! Jesus!”

“Oh my God!” Kurt yelps, startled. “Oh my God! I'm sorry!” Kurt's body lifts, something underneath pushing him up. He reaches around the slippery food mess and the wet plastic trash bags, trying to get purchase to pull himself up and off whoever's in the trash under him, trying to ignore the gravy seeping into his McQueen slacks, or the rice pilaf embedding itself beneath his fingernails. He's probably landed on a homeless man, and in New York, he'll be a homeless man with a mind to sue.

How much worse could this evening get?

“I'm sorry,” Kurt repeats, hoping it'll help his case if it goes to court. “I'm so, so sorry.” He finally manages to get to his knees and crawl a few feet.

“It's alright,” the man underneath him chuckles, emerging from a layer of poached fish and au gratin potatoes. Kurt turns in time to get a look at him as he moves into the circle of the overhead arc sodium lamp. This man, whoever he is, covered in Hollandaise sauce and ranch dressing, is far from homeless. He's wearing a Brooks Brothers suit and a silk tie, and a sheepish smile on his handsome face.

“I thought I had reserved a private dumpster,” the man jokes. “I think I'll need to have a word with the maître de.

Kurt stares at him, stunned. “I…I don't understand. What are you doing in here?”

“I have a suspicion that I'm in here for the same reason as you,” the man says, wiping mayonnaise off his hand and onto his pant leg before offering it to Kurt. “Hi. I'm Blaine. Blaine Anderson.”

“Kurt Hummel. I'm sorry I landed on you.” He takes Blaine's hand, forgetting to wipe it off before he takes it and smushing creamed spinach between them. Kurt groans in embarrassment, but Blaine laughs.

“Hey, don't worry about it,” Blaine says, not letting go immediately the way Kurt thought he would. “It's the most exciting thing that's happened all evening.”

“I'm guessing you're running away from a bad date, too, huh?” Kurt asks, regretting when Blaine finally lets go, regardless of the stench of curdled butter and cheese that will probably be with him for life.

“Yeah.” Blaine glances down with a bashful grin. “My brother set me up, but I swear to God, the only men he knows are unemployed, torpid, and skeevy.”

“Wow,” Kurt says. “That's some A-plus word usage.”

“I was playing Words with Friends when I locked myself in the bathroom,” Blaine admits.

“So, you're the one who wrecked the silver trashcan.”

“Did I?” Blaine looks up at the window and grimaces. “I should probably offer to replace that. What about you?” Blaine turns his eyes back to him. “How bad was your date?”

“Well, I can now perform an appendectomy, probably with my eyes shut.”

“Yikes,” Blaine says. “I take it that's not a turn on for you?”

“Not in the slightest,” Kurt says. “I appreciate medicine as much as the next guy, but I'd rather not know the gritty details. I'm more of a musical theater man myself. I mean, give me a Sondheim medley any day, and I'm a happy camper.”

“Really?” Blaine says. “I love Sondheim. I actually just saw that documentary Six by Sondheim a few weeks ago. Have you seen it?”

“Yeah,” Kurt says, lighting up. “I'm a huge fan of America Ferrera.”

“Me, too” - Blaine scoots across a mound of salmon pâté in his excitement - “from the Ugly Betty oofa.”

“Oh my God! That scene at the prom with Justin…”

“Pivotal,” Blaine says. “I loved it. It was a life-changer for me.”

“Yeah,” Kurt agrees, nodding slowly. “For me, too.”

Blaine watches Kurt until Kurt notices, and then the two look away, blushing like giggly teenagers flirting in a coffee shop instead of two adults stuck in the trash.

“You know, we might want to get out of here before anyone else jumps in,” Blaine says, rising to his feet and lending Kurt a hand.

“Yeah,” Kurt says, “though I'm not looking forward to driving home like this.”

“Well, I hope you don't think I'm being too forward,” Blaine says, “but I have a membership to a 24-Hour Fitness not too far from here. We could clean up there, and then go grab a slice of pie. I know a great diner. They have the best pie.”

“But, I don't have a change of clothes,” Kurt says, wary of taking Blaine up on his invitation. Garbage notwithstanding, this has definitely been an improvement to the way things were going. But still, one disastrous date was plenty for one evening.

“We can get you a pair of sweats,” Blaine says with a slight beg. “On me.”

“Oh, if you knew me, then you'd know I'm not a sweats man,” Kurt says.

“Well, would you be willing to be, just this once?” Blaine asks. “Because I'd really like to get to know you better.”

Kurt's not sure that he should - literally jump straight from one bad date to another, with a man he met in a dumpster. But the story of how they met is way too fantastic to waste on self-doubt, and besides, this is the first time a man has been able to make his heart race with a few words in months. He'd be stupid not to take a chance and see where this goes.

“Sure,” Kurt says, confident with his decision. “I think I can bend the rules this once. Your car or mine?” The words slip out before he considers the fact that there will now be two sloppy food stained seats he'll need to have cleaned in the morning, but maybe he can find a blanket in his trunk he doesn't care about too much, or something else they can sit on.

“I've got a rental,” Blaine says, “since mine's in the shop.”

“Your car it is then,” Kurt says, looping his arm covered in soup through Blaine's arm covered in whipped cream, and lets him lead the way to his car.