“Oh, yes! That’s me! Clay, right?” I give a small laugh and extend my hand, he returns the gesture.
Oh my God, his hands are so soft.
“Oh my God, your hands are so soft,” I say aloud. He chuckles and moves to pull my chair out for me. I thank him quickly and settle into our cozy table.
“I use my hands for my work,” he says elusively as he sits down across from me. He rests his muscled forearms on the table and steeples his fingertips. I give him a once over, not totally hating what I see.
#2: Tall and handsome, check
#3: Chivalrous, check
#8: Roughly my age, check
Thank you, Dominic.
“So whatdoyou do?” I ask coyly while I carefully slip my heels out of the back of my shoes under the table, trying to give my feet a bit of a rest while we sit.Stupid shoes.
“I’m an artist. I mainly work in sculpting but I explore my artistry wherever it needs to be found.” He blinks slowly and gazes at me through hooded eyes. I’m a tad confused at what he’s trying to project to me right now, but I go with it.
#1: Loyal…to his artistry, check
#5: Can support himself…well he has a job so that’s a good start, half check
“Oh, very cool! Wait…so your name is Clay, and you work withclay?”I tease as our server approaches us and begins to go over the evening’s special, Clay’s face remaining neutral as if he doesn’t see the irony in it.
“Tonight we have a lovely chicken scarpariello made with a tangy lemon glaze and peppers grown from the chef’s own garden…” before the waiter can continue Clay cuts in.
“Actually, I’m vegan. But that dish sounds great. I’ll take that, but vegan, thanks.” Clay hands over his menu to the waiter who looks a little confused. I don’t blame them, how can they make a chicken dish into a vegan dish? I quickly glance over the menu and instantly see a pasta I love.
“May I please have the—” I begin, but Clay cuts me off.
“She’ll have the anchovy pizza.” Clay looks at me and smiles. I can’t smile back because my face is stuck on shock and audacity. I slowly blink.
“Um, no I won’t actually,” I finally reply, but it’s too late, our waiter has already left in a flurry to deliver the worst Italianorders in the history of ever. I don’t even know what to say. I’m completely rendered speechless and I’m not even sure if it’s the audacity Clay has to order for me, or the fact that he ordered the most heinous of pizza toppingswhen he said he was vegan!
I take a deep breath and try to lay it out gently for him that I can order myself when he hits me with a sentence I thought I’d never hear.
“Your aura is telling me that your spirit needs some cleansing,” he continues, “Anchovies are high in omega three fatty acids, it’ll clear your third eye chakra in a flash.”
For the next ten minutes, Clay continues to explain to me the function and location of each chakra and what foods I can eat in order to cleanse each one. I listen, in utter disbelief even though I’m pretty sure he thinks I’m hanging on his every word. In reality, I have absolutely no idea what to say as each sentence out of his mouth is more absurd than the last.
Our server places our dishes in front of us, faster than expected.Thank goodness.I glance over to the kitchen window where Chef Antonio glares at us from behind the glass. I try to give him an appreciative smile but I think it comes across more as “I’ve been kidnapped.” Chef squints at me then turns to berate a line staff.
I take a very small and very hesitant bite of my fish pizza while Clay digs into his vegan chicken dish. I had originally thought that his dirty blonde hair had been slicked back and styled to hang carefully to his shoulders, but upon second inspection I realize it’s just very greasy.
“My hair?” Clay smiles and pats his mouth with his napkin, catching my stare. “I’m part of the no poo movement.” He smiles triumphantly.
“I’m sorry, what did you just say?” That’s it. I’ve officially heard the weirdest shit in the last half hour.
“No poo. Like no shampoo. The plastic bottles are terrible for the environment so I use my natural body oils to style my hair.”
“Okay,” I say, my voice coming out much higher than I intended.
“So are you no poo, or poo?” he asks while taking another hearty bite of…whatever Chef made him.
“Please stop saying poo,” I plead under my breath before taking a few more bites around the anchovies.
“Shampoo. You know I actually have a rad solution for ecological waste.”
