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I called out to him and he answered from his room.
Still naked, I asked him what he was doing, and he answered, simply, by saying, “I have a feeling I’m going to meet a beautiful woman in a bar tonight. My psychic senses—which, I certainly have—tell me that her name will be Leila, and that we’re going to have one of those once-in-a-lifetime meetings. I want to make sure I’m prepared.”
He was laying out a black button-down shirt, black pants, and a red tie.
Now, I’m sitting at Locus, ordering a tequila sunrise.
“I’ll buy that drink,” a dashing, if somewhat overdressed, man with a red tie tells the bartender.
“Thanks,” I say, then quickly turn my attention away from him.
“Mind if I sit?” he asks.
I shrug. “Just keep your hands to yourself,” I tell him.
“That might be a problem,” he says.
I turn and, mouth agape, ask, “What did you just say?”
“I said that won’t be a problem,” he rejoins, smiling. “So, where are you from? Are you a born New Yorker?”
“Not at all,” I tell him. “I’m from a dreary little town where the movie theater only shows movies that came out 10 years ago.” It’s a lie, but tonight is about improvisation.
“Sounds terrible,” he says.
“Actually, I really miss it,” I tell him.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I wondered if you could help me with something.”
It’s a bit forward, but I’ll allow it. “With what do you need my help?”
“Fancy,” he teases.
I roll my eyes.
At no point did I tell him my fantasy involved me making it easy for him.
“I’m a chef at l’Iris,” he says, “and I find myself with the night off and nobody to enjoy a nice dinner with me.”
“l’Iris,” I say. “That’s pretty impressive. I love their confit de canard.”
“You know, we actually just call it candied duck in the kitchen. The whole overuse of French thing is kind of played, don’t you think?”
He’s apparently not going to make this easy for me, either.
Well-played, sir.
“Losing my lady boner,” I tell him. “Yeah, I really can’t get away with saying that, can I?”
He laughs.
“Well, it’s about the last phrase I expected, but it put a smile on my face.”
“Okay,” I start again, “so you’re a chef at l’Iris with nobody to join you for dinner. Is there anything else, or were you just lamenting?”
“I was wondering if you might know anyone who’d be interested in a free, very high class dinner.”
“I might,” I elude, “but I hardly know you, and I haven’t even finished my drink yet.”
