“You look good too.”
I wore black trousers and a rust-colored shirt Gloria had insisted made me look adult.
“Only good?”
“Nine.”
“Be honest.”
“Ten.”
I sat. Amy took the chair opposite. The table was too wide. I immediately disliked it. A server offered menus. Amy opened hers. I watched her.
“What?” she asked.
“You’re reading the entire menu.”
“Yes.”
The candle between us leaned in a draft from the dining room vent. Amy flattened the page with one hand, as serious as if the entrées required fiduciary review.
“We could order something random.”
“No.”
“Date inefficiency.”
“Food allergies are not romantic.”
“You don’t have allergies.”
“Preferences matter.”
“Pick the first thing that sounds good.”
She looked over the menu. “That is how you spent two hundred dollars on takeout.”
“You reviewed my bank statements on a first fake date.”
“This is a real date.” She closed the menu, though one finger remained between the pages. “I will not discuss your financial habits.”
“Promise?”
“For thirty minutes.”
We ordered. Amy selected pasta after only seven minutes. Growth. The conversation began badly. Not conflict. Worse. Politeness.
“How was your afternoon?” she asked.
“Good.”
“What did you do?”
“Laundry.”
“I prepared meals.”
“Nice.”
