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ARIANA
“Sooo… are you finally going to tell me what it is you do for a living?”
My date blinked back at me from across the table, not exactly sure how to respond. He’d answered the question twice already. Neither answer was to my liking, however.
“Well, as I told you, I’m a freelance publicist.”
I held out a halting finger as I finished draining my beer. As the last of the suds slid down my throat, my date was regarding me curiously.
“What?” he tilted his head. “You don’t believe me?”
“Oh, I believe you,” I said matter-of-factly. “It’s just that those words don’t have any true meaning. Not in the sense that it conveys anything real, I mean.”
He was cute, my blind date. Handsome, too. Maybe a tiny bit on the shorter side, but he was well-dressed enough to make up for it. His hygiene was good, and he was groomed past my usual point of satisfaction. Which in this day and age, was a sliding scale.
Still, he’d ridden up to our date on a bike. Not a motorcycle either, but an actual bicycle. A mountain bike, to be more accurate. One with big knobby tires that seemed oddly incongruent with Seattle’s smoothly-paved streets.
“Alright, what do you do as a freelance publicist?” I prodded him. “And don’t use the words ‘freelance’ or ‘publicist’ in your answer.”
The man’s mocha brown eyes flitted upward, as if the answer were somewhere above him. When he spoke again his voice was more monotone, more mechanical.
“Well, I drive progress,” he started.
“Ah, progress,” I chuckled. “Always good.”
“And I support influence marketing initiatives,” he went on. “I nurture client relationships. I provide strategic, team-based oversight...”
It was like he was reading directly from a book. Or from his resume. Which was probably directly from a book.
“I also develop systems and tools, to optimize synergy and enhance media outreac—”
By now I was already distracted, and taking in other stimuli. I scanned around, soaking in the sights, the smells, and the atmosphere of the place he’d chosen for our rendezvous. Three waiters were serving up frothy pitchers of amber-colored beer to a dozen or more high tables scattered throughout the open room. The place wasn’t a restaurant — well, not technically anyway — although it did have food. But it had axe-throwing, which was apparently good for building upon my already significant appetite.
“So is this your go-to first date, Chris, or what?” I asked.
Chris stopped talking immediately.
“Hmm?”
“I mean look around,” I waved an arm. “It’s pretty specific. Axe-throwing bars and restaurants are pretty trendy right now, don’t you think?”
He looked suddenly uncomfortable. “I— I guess.”
“So I’m thinking you bring a girl here, you ply her with booze, you throw a few axes around… it becomes your thing, right? Your lead-off first date?”
Chris’s face was expressionless now. Utterly blank.
“Hey, I’m not saying it’s a bad one,” I said quickly. “It’s clean, it’s casual, it’s fun…” I picked up one of the onion rings from the basket we were sharing and crunched into it. “Kinda noisy though,” I added. “But a lot more unique than, let’s say, dinner and a movie.”
“Would… would you rather we went to dinner and a movie?” he stammered.
I shrugged. “No, not necessarily.”
“Then what—”
“I mean dinner and a movie is a lot more intimate,” I went on. “It’s conversation-driven, too. Then again, spooning me from behind as you show me how to throw axes is intimate also. In a different way, of course.”
