A waiter comes by and I barrel ahead with the whole order. As soon as I get to the “And he’ll have the--” part, I finally see a flicker of annoyance.
“What the fuck?”
“You love chorizo! I just wanted to see if I could guess what you’d order!”
“You ordered it.”
He gets up. I get up. He goes to the bathroom. I sit down. He returns from the bathroom. I stand up and pull his chair back.
Now he is very annoyed and about to say something but I immediately derail the conversation by bringing up Anthony Bourdain, which always works.
Finally, the check comes and I grab it.
“This is for an article, isn’t it.”
I knew the very first meal together would blow my cover. Under normal circumstances, asking me to throw in an extra $20 for dinner is like storming Normandy.
“Come on, you’re such a bad actress.”
Little does he know, I prove him wrong by not looking like Edvard Munch’s “The Scream” when I pay the whole check.
The Gentleman Cracks
After five days of decision-making, carrying bags, standing in the rain, jacket-lending (it only fit over his shoulder), standing and sitting at restaurants so often I should really have a Jen Selter ass now, holding the door for what I vengefully began thinking of as the Human Centipede, AND feeling guilty that I couldn’t discuss it with him, I finally cracked.