“So, Claire, tell me about yourself,” a man named Todd asks as I sit across from him at a casual but nice Italian place.
That’s right, I’m on another date.
Because the PR stuff had calmed down and Sam was at work, I found myself on the oversize green couch in my apartment with nothing to do but swipe. I matched with someone; he made me laugh twice in the first five messages, showed no signs of MLM involvement, and asked me out for tonight. I said yes, obviously.
“I grew up in Burbank,” I tell him. I could have started with my job, but the last thing I want to do right now is talk about work. In fact, when he asks, I just might make something up.
“I haven’t spent much time there,” he says, his green eyes bright under the can lights of the restaurant.
Todd is the same age as me, according to his bio, and looks just like his posted picture with a pleasant smile and thick, wavy light-brown hair.
“Most people know us for all the studios, but what they don’t know is that pretty much everyone in Burbank has had a Jay Leno sighting,” I say, giving him one of my well-used lines.
He gives a laugh, and it’s a good one. Deep and rumbly.
“What about you? Where are you from?”
The server, a man in black pants and a blue striped button-up, arrives at the table just then, so Todd doesn’t have a chance to answer.
“Good evening. Can I get you two something to drink while you look at the menus?” he asks, looking at Todd and then me.
“I’d love a Diet Coke,” I tell him.
“I’ll have some water,” says Todd, and then holds up a hand. “But I need it to be room temperature. No ice.”
The look on his face is serious, as if this is of the utmost importance.
“Absolutely,” the server tells him.
“It must be room temperature,” he reiterates.
“Of course.” The server gives him a tight smile. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
He leaves, and Todd rubs his hands together like that whole thing didn’t just happen. “Where were we?”
“Um,” I say, feeling just the slightest bit of unease about the water. Because it was weird, right? Or maybe I’m just sensitive after my MLM date.
Let it go, Claire.
“I was asking you where you’re from,” I say, getting back to the conversation.
“Right.” He gives me another smile. “I grew up in Sacramento.”
“Really? What brought you down south?”
“Work,” he says. “I’m a civil engineer working mostly on water infrastructure for the county.”
“Impressive,” I say, even though I have no idea what that means. What is water infrastructure? Does it have to do with room-temperature water? I’d make the joke, but I don’t think he’d find it funny.
Our conversation moves through the normal first-date stuff—where he lives now (North Hollywood), what he does for fun (swimming, which tracks for someone who thinks about water professionally), and what I do for fun, which I answer with “reading and people watching.” That’s actually more what I dofor work, but “trying to break a generational curse” is not usually something I bring up on a first date . . . or ever.
The server brings us our drinks, and Todd takes a big gulp of his water.
“I’m sorry,” he says, closing his eyes as if he’s just swallowed poison. He holds the glass out to the server. “This is way too cold. I asked for room temperature.” He exaggerates the last two words, as if the server hadn’t heard him correctly the first time.
“My apologies,” says the server, taking the cup from him and walking away.
Todd is for sure getting his drink spit in.
