“Sure thing, Bob. You sell vacuums? You look like you’d sell vacuums.” The waitress arrives with our food, and Morgan flashes her an angelic smile. “Could I trouble you for a slice of apple pie, miss? I would be so very grateful.”
She beams. “Why, of course! Aren’t you a charming one!”
I roll my eyes. Our waitress asks Morgan if he has a motorcycle, because he “looks the type.” After some back-and-forth he promises they’ll do bike stunts all over town together if he everdoesget a motorcycle, even though this woman is old enough to remember JFK’s time in office. She brings him a slice of pie that is three times the size of an ordinary serving,and he croons, “It looks just as gorgeous as you do.” She adds a scoop of ice cream to his plate, free of charge.
He’s a devil. Using his wiles to get ice cream, to get my attention when he doesn’t deserve it, calling everybody gorgeous. He probably calls his dentist gorgeous, too, trying to finagle a discount. The cops, whenever he gets speeding tickets. I’ve had enough!
I growl through clenched teeth, “Are you lost?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I’m on a date.”
I knock my knee against his, trying to shove him off the bench without creating a scene. “Then go wait for your date at your own table.”
“Youare my date.”
Dylan shifts uncomfortably. “Zelda, do you know this guy?”
“She sure does!” Morgan sips my coffee. Spits it back out into the mug. “Shit, that’s hot.”
“Morgan!Leave.” I press all my weight against him, but I might as well be trying to push a parked car. My wriggling does nothing except create friction, and Morgan looks sidelong at me. His face is entirely too close, and his eyes have a happy, overcaffeinated glint to them. His mouth threatens to smile.
I scoot away with a quickness. “You are intruding.”
“I am collecting. You owe me a date.”
Dylan’s gaze swivels between us. “You’re dating?”
My reply is an emphatic “No.”
“I bought the date she auctioned off,” Morgan informs Dylan, tone pleasant. “And I’m here to receive what I’m owed.”
This is an outrage. “I already went on that date with you!”
“Mm.” Morgan squints one eye. “No. We never officially confirmed thatthatouting was for the auction.”
Dylan’s mouth is in danger of disappearing, growing thinner and thinner. “I don’t understand.”
“Morgan is deranged,” I tell him consolingly, reaching across the table to touch the back of his hand. “Please ignore him.”
Dylan sizes up the man seated to my left, who is now wolfing down apple pie. Since I last saw him, Morgan’s changed into a red Hawaiian shirt with the top three buttons undone. I suppose he considers this his date-night attire, but he looks like Magnum P.I.
Dylan eyes the wedge of bare chest Morgan’s got on display and decides he can’t ignore him. “This is weird.”
“What’s weird about it? I’m having a great time.” Morgan cuts his dessert in half, scraping some to the edge of the plate toward me. “Try this. It’s scrumptious.” To Dylan: “If not vacuums, then maybe carpet cleaners? Definitely a traveling salesman, though, and definitely floor-related products.”
I almost laugh, which is irrational, because I am exasperated. I cannot be exasperated with himandamused. That would only encourage his bad behavior. “Stop it.”
Poor Dylan has no idea how to react. “I’m a bank teller.”
Morgan scrutinizes him. Shakes his head decisively and continues to eat. “Disagree.”
I am of two minds. One: this date has not gone particularly well. It wasn’t going well even before Morgan gate-crashed it.
Two: first dates can be awkward. Dylan didn’t get a fairshake. I gather up my purse and ask him if he wants to go somewhere else.
“I’ve only got another twenty minutes,” he says miserably. “My brother’s bachelor party is tonight.”
Morgan points a fork at Dylan. “I’ve got it! You sellEncyclopedia Britannica.”
