I offered him a smile, and he smiled back, finally getting his own menu. "So, you've been here before, then?" he wanted to know.
"Oh, yeah. My brother loves this place, and before he married a woman who can cook, we used to have dinner here a couple of times a month."
"Hm. What's good?"
"Everything, really. I haven't worked my way through all their entrees yet, but the meatballs are amazing, and every pasta dish I've tried has been wonderful. The portions are huge too, so if you're into leftovers, you don't have to worry about making lunch tomorrow."
He just nodded and started reading the menu more closely.
The atmosphere was awkward to say the least. As the night progressed, Bradley alternated between talking to me in quick bursts and lapsing into silence. He ordered a bottle of wine without asking for my opinion, and then decided on the fried calamari 'for the table'. When our server glanced at me for my input, he just started talking about the starters at his own restaurant.
I couldn't tell if he just didn't know how to talk to other people or if he didn't care, but it was uncomfortable.
Once the food came, we at least had something else to do, and I tucked into my chicken parm with gusto, trying to avoid splashing sauce everywhere when I sucked up noodles.
Meanwhile Bradley was looking at his plate of shrimp linguine like it might bite him.
"Is everything okay?" I asked, wiping my mouth.
"I just don't usually eat out at other places," he admitted.
"Never?" I asked, lifting an eyebrow.
"Not since I decided to open my own. It feels disloyal."
"...to who?" I was baffled at that comment. It wasn't like he owed anyone anything when it came to eating other places. He owned the restaurant.
"Myself," he said, and I fought the urge to roll my eyes. "I worked hard to get to where I am, so why should I give my money to other places who haven't earned it?"
"I think making delicious food for you to eat counts as earning it," I pointed out.
"Sure, but I don't know if it's delicious or not."
"You would if you tried it." I tried to keep my tone civil and calm, but really, I was just in disbelief. None of this weird energy had been there when we were at his restaurant for the pictures, and I couldn't figure out where it was coming from or if I'd just missed it before because I'd been more focused on work then.
It wasn't outside of the realm of possibility.
Bradley took a bite of his pasta while I watched and then shrugged a shoulder, looking like he could take it or leave it.
I put my eyes back on my own plate.
The conversation was stilted from there. He asked about my work and I talked about how much I loved photography and seeing the world through different lenses. I asked about his work and he talked about how much he loved using something he'd grown up with to make money.
I commented that he must be an excellent cook, and he said that no, he had an outside chef who did all the cooking. He was just there to oversee.
When the server came back to see if we wanted containers for leftovers or dessert, Bradley declined a box for his mostly still full plate and ordered the tiramisu. And then, of course, proceeded to pick at it while talking about how people should really specify if they were actually Italian or if their food was more Italian American.
By that point, I was done. My poor taste in men had reared its ugly head once more, and I wanted nothing more than to be away from this weirdo as soon as possible.
Of course, the night couldn't end so simply, though. After we paid (a split check, of course), I stood up, grabbing my purse. Bradley looked at me with a grin. "So," he said. "Did you have any plans after this? Because I would love it if you wanted to come back to my place with me."
For a second, I was stunned at his boldness. Even if the date had gone well, that was an incredibly forward thing to say to someone, and the date had not gone anywhere near well.
I looked at our table and the not even half eaten portion of tiramisu on his plate, and shook my head. "No, thank you. I'm just going to go home. I have an early day tomorrow."
His face fell and he sighed. "Ah, that's fair. Well, I hope you'll call me again. Next time we can have a real dinner."
That was the last straw, and I just made a noncommittal sound before turning to leave.
