“It’s been a very,verylong day,” I joke. He doesn’t laugh. His downward-facing mouth only reaffirming his lack of amusement.
“Uh-huh,” he replies, half listening, half watching the pretty blond waitress heading straight for us with a bottle and corkscrew. “I always find it’s best to keep that sort of thing up to date, so as not to hinder expectations. You don’t want to come across as a catfish.”
I agree to an extent, but it’s still a weird thing to say. I play it off. Like his choice in wine, maybe his humor is just a bit dry.
“I would have thought my experience would be more important than the image on my profile.”
One eyebrow raises. “Depends what type of experience.” He chortles and I follow suit, forcing a laugh despite a rising sense of discomfort like my future self is elbowing me in the stomach.
Between the sounds of clinking glasses, roaring laughter, and raucous conversation at the other tables, I watch him swirl the red wine he selected so it licks against the side of the glass, sniffing it, then taking a slow gurgling sip to let the flavor penetrate every taste bud. It’s early in the week, I suppose, for serious drinking. But London, whether in the heat or the cold, makes everyone thirstier.
“How do you find it, sir?” the doe-eyed waitress inquires.
He unabashedly looks her up and down, still mid-slurp, then finally announces, “Delicious.”
She shoots back a forced smile and fills my glass, then his. When she turns to leave, I raise my glass by the stem. “To the passage of time.”
He hesitates, the wine sloshing up the side of his glass. “What?”
I falter. “What we were just talking about? My profile picture?”
His shoulders tense. “Oh, I’d prefer to cheers to something else.”
“Sure, what do you want to cheers to?” I ask, pulling my glass back.
“My Christmas bonus just came through.” His posture lifts like a proud kid who just won the egg and spoon race on sports day.
“Congratulations,” I choke out, suddenly desperate to down my wine.
He offers his first genuine smile since we sat down, clinks his glass into mine, and takes a laborious sip. The wine isn’t great, but now I know he’s flush with cash and clearly getting commission on investments, I’ll play ball to try to put some gas in this engine.
“Mmmm, good choice.” I smile sweetly.
He winks at me. “I’m a bit of a grape head.”
My cringeometer ratchets up a few points, genuinely debating whether just to call this meeting now. But Cecily’s words of encouragement ring in my head:Just try and feign interest and eventually something will click. Fake it till you make it, baby!Investors like to be wined and dined a bit first; getting straight to it reeks of desperation. You need to act like you don’t need their money, that you’re doing them a favor.
But we do need the money.Really, really need it.
Swallowing my pride, I place my chin in my hand, open my eyes really wide, and nod. “So how did you get to be so knowledgeable about wine?”
He clears his throat. “From the boss, a lot of after-work drinks.”
“Your job must be really stressful,” I speculate.
He stretches like Superman ready to save a child from traffic... “Nothing I can’t handle.”
Searching for a way to steer this ship back to Wyst, I ask, “Do you have a lot of clients right now?”
He shifts awkwardly.
Shit, was that a weird question to ask? “What I mean to say is, you seem really important at work.”
My leg bounces under the table as he continues to talk about himself. Listening to this guy brag about his six-figure-job-before-bonuses, I feel my soul and bank account draining. I could be reaching out to investors right now or researching new grant applications. Instead, I am listening to this man talk about his favorite films (Pulp FictionandFight Club, obviously), how Jack Kerouac inspired the post-university travels he is still hoping to relive despite hurtling toward his mid-thirties, and informing me that Tame Impala is“actually just one guy.”
I down the last of my drink, glancing at the waiter in the hopes that she will either bring the bill or drop an anvil on my head.
“So what do you do at that company again?” He looks at the table, running a finger over the wood grain.
