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“Ah, see, that’s cheating. You can’t just parrot my words to keep from disclosing too much. That’s a commonly used tool in a detached personality.”
“Stop profiling me,” I say with a teasing smile, but secretly hoping he really does stop.
What if he sees too much? What the hell am I thinking? This is the stupidest date I could possibly go on.
I finally meet a guy I want to see, perhaps even date, and it has to be the one guy who could see right through me?
He’s studying me too intensely, but I keep my smile in place, hoping it doesn’t seem strained.
“Occupational hazard. I can’t turn it off. I wish I could, but I can’t.”
Great.
He continues to await my reaction, and I try to think of how to properly react. How do normal women react? Do they gush and goo over his badge and skills? Do they get offended by his admission of constant profiling, feeling like he won’t let them have that privacy? I have no idea.
“How much has that affected your dating life?” I ask, deciding not to react at all and keep my expressions masked.
He groans while shaking his head and leaning back. “More than I care to admit. Women prefer to tell me how they feel, as opposed to me pointing it out. I’ve tried to stop, but can’t. Consider it a weird personality quirk. I was hopeful with you; you seem to do the same thing.”
His eyes find mine, and he really does seem hopeful. He’s right. I do the same thing. But for completely different reasons.
He serves justice the best he can.
I serve revenge in the way it needs to be.
“What’s your dating life like?” he asks, probing once again.
Like a cobweb with a bunch of dead bugs in it… Again, not the most appropriate answer.
As the waitress comes and drops off our small order, I try to think of the best answer, waiting until she leaves to respond.
“A little dry at the moment.”
“Ouch,” he says, but he grins.
“Well, not at this exact moment,” I say, feeling that stupid, uncontrollable smile spread again.
“So tell me about you.” He gestures toward me with one hand while using his other to bring the coffee to his lips.
“Twenty-six. New to the area. Constantly moving. And I have an odd fixation with socks. You?”
He frowns, as though something doesn’t sit well with him.
“You move a lot?” he asks, not answering my question.
We do that to each other, I guess. Avoid answering questions to ask our own.
“Yeah. I’ve lived in almost thirty states. Growing up was sort of boring. We lived in one town. It was small, and everyone k
new everything about everyone. After my parents died, it just got worse. Anyway, I’ve moved all over, trying to find what feels like home.”
“Any luck here?” he asks, clearing his throat.
“Maybe,” I say with a shrug.
I barely know him, so telling him he’s the first thing that’s piqued my interest this much would definitely be coming on too strong.
“So your parents…” He lets the words trail off, seeming reluctant to fully ask what he wants to know.
