While Sonia is busy, my attention is inevitably pulled back to the other couple having an awful first date.
“How’s your steak?” Medusa asks.
“Rather ligneous,” the windbag replies. “Overcooked.”
Ah, from the way he’s scarfing the food down, I wouldn’t have guessed.
The literary artist doesn’t ask Vivian about her dish, but she tells him anyway. “Really? Strange, because the French toast is delicious.”
A loud ringtone rips through the quiet chattering of the restaurant. Windbag, unperturbed, takes his time wiping his mouth on his napkin before he retrieves the ringing phone from his jeans pocket.
“Apologies,” he says. “It’s my agent; I have to get this. It could be important news.”
Christopher gets up and leaves the main room to go talk somewhere more private. Medusa doesn’t appear heartbroken to be abandoned halfway through her date; on the contrary, she seems relieved.
I keep looking at her, but she pointedly avoids my gaze, downs the rest of her drink, and then orders another one.
Ignored by Medusa, I turn back to Sonia, and find her moving her wine glass around the table while taking several shots of it with the view of Central Park in the background. I politely wait a good five minutes until she’s done.
Photos taken, she looks up at me. “Thank you for picking this place for our date, it’s so photogenic. I’ll be able to post a great Insta story.”
“Sure,” I say, thinking my Dating Specialist and I will have to have a serious conversation on their selection process.
Sonia’s phone pings on the table. She checks it, and her eyes widen.
“Dude,” she says. “A friend just texted me about an Angelika Black flash sale happening two blocks away. Do you mind if I scram? My followers will go nuts for it, and lunch is over anyway.”
I sigh. I would’ve offered to pay the bill, but for the gesture to be taken for granted irks me a little. At least, with her swift departure, there won’t be any pretense of a second date happening.
“Not at all,” I say.
“You’re the best.” She collects her things and gets up.
I stand up as well. No matter that she’s being—quite frankly—rude, I won’t let my good manners be compromised.
Sonia circles the table and gives me a boisterous hug, saying, “Thanks, this has been amazing, can’t wait to do it again.”
The declaration leaves me a little speechless. This is her idea of a great date? What happens on bad ones, I wonder.
When I don’t reply, she looks at me with a weird intensity in her eyes and gives me a second, longer hug.
Another squeeze and she finally lets go. I look at her a bit baffled, asking, “Are you okay?”
“I am,” she says. “The question is, are you?”
I gape, unsure how to reply.
Sonia must take my silence as a sign I’m not okay, because she continues. “If you still have nightmares about what happened to you in prison, you should download my friend Audrey’s mental health app. I’ll send you the link.”
I’ve given up by this point on convincing her I never went to prison. But Sonia casually recommending a mental health app to who knows how many followers worries me. “Is your friend a certified professional?”
“Yeah, of course. I wouldn’t recommend her app otherwise.”
“Is she a colleague?”
“No,” Sonia scoffs. “Audrey didn’t go to college. As if going to some big-name school gives you a license to tell people what to do with their lives! Besides, Audrey’s max zen—she’s the best yoga instructor in New York. I can’t believe you haven’t heard of her.”
Evidently, Sonia missed the part where I told her I was a psychologist. I’m starting to doubt she heard much of anything that came out of my mouth. “I wouldn’t trust mental health issues to someone without a degree,” I warn. “And neither should your followers.”
“Audrey’s app is more about working on yourself through self-consciousness and meditation. I’ll send you the link, but sorry, I have to go now if I want to catch anything decent at that sale. All the best items disappear in the first ten minutes. You wouldn’t believe what a jungle it is out there.”
To avoid being pity-hugged again, I take a step back and wish her good luck with the flash sale.
Once Sonia is gone, I slump down in my seat, mentally exhausted after that disaster of a date. Once I recover, I search the room for a server to ask for the bill. I catch one’s gaze and make a pen-writing-on-paper gesture. He nods at me, letting me know he understood.
I risk a glance at Vivian, and am surprised to find her staring right back, a poorly concealed half-smile pulling at her lips. Medusa can’t resist; she wrinkles her nose and gives me a mocking double thumbs up.
I ignore the provocation and look away, still waiting for that server. The sooner I can leave, the better.
In the meantime, her companion returns and sits back at the table, just as their bill arrives. Medusa must’ve asked for it while I was saying goodbye to Sonia. Guess she’s as eager as me to get out of here.
Windbag looks at the check, but makes no move to take it, so Vivian, with a forced smile, grabs the leather folder, declaring, “Let’s split it, shall we?”
“By all means, I’m not paying for this excrementitious meal on my own.”
Vivian’s face falls while her cheeks color, and it’s my turn to silently laugh.
“The steak was thirty dollars,” the literary artist continues, taking his wallet out of his pocket.
Thirty-one dollars, Mr. Cheap, I correct him in my head.
He produces a twenty and a ten and drops them on the table. “For my part.”
Vivian raises an eyebrow, probably wondering if the man simply forgot about taxes, the tip, and the glass of “the restaurant’s best red” he ordered, or if the windbag isn’t just a literary artist but also a shakedown pro. I’d say the second. And from the taut curve of her lips, I assume Medusa must’ve
