And I do. Now it’d look really weird for me to back out, so I’m stuck.
My internal hermit is chewing me out, pointing out how unbearable Lisa and Zoe are going to be if they find out about this, when he says, “So, what about Lisa and… Zoe? Ha! I think I’ve got it!”
Suddenly terrified that he’s reading my mind, I falter. “W-What? What about them?”
“Her name! I think I’ve got it now.” He taps his temple. “Sorry. Go ahead.”
I shake my head at him, trying to figure out if it’s me or him making this conversation almost impossible. I can’t help but snap, “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
His smile fades. “Right. You left the office with Zoe and Lisa, but then you came back up in the lift. And then rode it down again.” The smile returns. “Do you like to spend your lunch hour riding the lift?”
Completely unconvincingly, I lie, “Oh, that. I… uh… er, thought I forgot my… wallet! But then I found it in my purse while I was riding the elevator up.”
Turning toward me but keeping in stride with me, he puts his hands in his pockets and squints in the sun. “Do you want to try to catch up to them?”
His question suddenly makes me wonder if they’ll be at the sushi place we’re heading for. My stomach clenches. “Uh, no! That’s okay. I’m sure they’re way ahead of us, already eating by now.” As casually as possible, I turn a block before the street we’d take to get to our original destination and say, “You know, I’m actually more in the mood for a burger. Is that okay?”
“I’m easy,” he replies. “Whatever. As long as it’s not a garden burger. That just sounds hideously unappetizing, don’t you think?”
“Sure. I guess.” I’ve never spoken to another English-speaking person and had more trouble understanding him. I feel like I’m constantly three seconds behind. Like there’s some kind of audio lag going on in real life. It’s completely disconcerting and disorienting.
Because of that, other than a recommendation on what he should order when we get to the tiny burger joint, we don’t say anything until we’re seated with our food. And we only start talking again because he insists on it. My main objective is to make it though this meal without being discovered.
“So… are you originally from Chicago?” he asks after swallowing his first bite. He takes a drink and waits for my answer.
“Yes,” I say simply.
He nods, waiting for more, but when I don’t volunteer anything, he soldiers on. “You must like it well enough, then, to stay here after… what was it? University? Secretarial school?”
I can tell from the way his eyes are twinkling that he’s kidding about secretarial school, but I still bristle a little. “For your information, I went to Loyola,” I tell him snobbishly, hating myself for being such an elitist bitch. But for some reason, it’s important for me to establish that I’m more than someone who can type and make coffee.
And I don’t want to be Real Jude’s friend, anyway. That would seriously hinder my relationship with Fantasy Jude, who I really like.
Eyebrows raised, he swallows another bite, then says. “Wow. What did you read?”
His question takes me aback. Does he want me to list everything I read in college? “Uh… textbooks?”
He wrinkles his brow, then laughs. “Oh! No. Sorry. I meant what was your area of study?”
Why didn’t he just say that, then? “I majored in anthropology and sociology,” I reply, unexpectedly annoyed by his impressed expression and his obvious reappraisal of me and my intelligence based on my answer. If I’m just a secretary, I must be dumb; but someone with a degree… now that’s impressive? I get so sick of being stereotyped, especially by these high-and-mighty, nerdy architects I work with (not for).
He repeats, “Wow. And how’d you get into, um, administrative work, then?”
“It’s a long story,” I dodge and feint. “What about you? You went to Oxford?”
Holding his napkin up to his mouth, he closes his eyes and bounces in his chair, obviously laughing and trying not to spit out his food or choke. When he recovers, he answers, “Uh, no. Not even close. Not everyone from England goes to Oxford, you know.”
“I know!” I say defensively. “I just figured…” I blush as I realize my blunder. “I must have you confused with… someone else. Anyway, sorry.” I take a deep breath to compose myself, then ask neutrally, “Where’d you go?”
“University of Edinburgh. In Scotland. I read Architecture and Design.”
“Obviously.”
“Well, maybe not. Maybe I studied to be a… secretary.”
“Very funny,” I say flatly.
He cocks his head. “Sorry. I’m getting the idea that your job is a sore topic.”
I don’t want him getting any ideas about me, so I force myself to smile. “Not at all.” I wave my hand in front of myself and say, “Don’t mind me. I’m taking a bad day out on you.”
He graciously accepts my half-apology, which makes me feel even worse. If he would just be a jerk and tell me to go screw myself, it would be a lot easier.
To keep the conversation away from me and my background, I go back to asking him about himself. “Anyway, what brings you to the Windy City?”
He looks blankly at me; then understanding lightens his features. “Oh. Yes. Chicago’s the Windy City, isn’t that right?” I nod, amazed that someone could not know that like they know that the sky is blue.
He plays with his straw, tying it in a knot. “A job.”
“Yeah, but why’d you choose to apply for a job in Chicago, of all places?”
“You like it here, right?”
“Yeah, but I don’t know any better. Unfortunately.” I sit back and study his reaction to my probing. “I’m just curious why Chicago got your attention, as opposed to New York or L.A. or, I don’t know, St. Louis. Anywhere.”
He runs a hand through his hair
