While we wait for the next course, Jake becomes very interested in the man sitting across from us. Specifically, the man’s tie.
It’s navy silk with a subtle geometric pattern.
Jake stares at it like it’s performing a magic trick.
The donor—Mr. Whitaker, according to the place card—leans forward to say something about youth outreach programs.
Jake leans forward too. But not for the outreach programs.
His eyes are locked on the tie.
“Is that… hand-stitched?” Jake interrupts suddenly.
Mr. Whitaker blinks. “I—excuse me?”
“The tie,” Jake clarifies, gesturing vaguely toward the man’s chest. “It’s extraordinary.”
Mr. Whitaker looks down at his own torso like he’s never seen it before. “It’s, ah… Italian silk.”
Jake nods slowly. Reverently.
“I knew it.”
“That pattern,” Jake continues, eyes wide with genuine admiration, “is exquisite.”
I kick him under the table.
Hard.
Hedoesn’t flinch.
Mr. Whitaker, bless his wealthy soul, is now deeply invested in this exchange.
“I, ah, do have a fondness for good tailoring,” he says, straightening slightly.
Jake nods, intensely. “It shows.”
He reaches out, fondling the tie with his fingers.
I grab his wrist under the table with lightning speed.
Jake glances at me, confused. “What?”
“Hands to yourself,” I mutter.
He looks back at Mr. Whitaker with renewed sincerity. “I just want you to know that this tie is making my entire evening better.”
There is a silence.
A long one.
Then Mr. Whitaker beams.
“Well,” he says, clearly delighted, “that might be the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me at one of these dinners.”
Jake nods solemnly.
And then spends the rest of the meal smiling like a man who has discovered inner peace.
