Roger looks at me. “Aw, c’mon, sweetie. Don’t tell me you’re one of those women who doesn’t eat.”
I feel like an animal trapped in a corner.
“No, I eat,” I say, trying to stay as sweet as possible.
He looks at my plate. “Then why is your plate empty?”
“I was waiting for other people to get their food,” I say, biting back the words,which is the polite thing to do.
The woman next to him hands his plate back, and he doesn’t say thank you. “You know what they say, ‘God helps those who help themselves.’”
God never said that, I think to myself.
I draw in a breath as Roger takes a huge bite of pizza. The waitress comes around with water, and he grabs her arm. “Can I get a beer? Is that allowed?”
“Of course, sir,” she says. “We have several beers on tap—”
He cuts her off with a loud “Nah—Bud in the bottle is fine.”
I take a slow, steadying breath and take a slice of pizza from the pan and set it on my plate.
“So,” Roger says. “You’re divorced.”
I’m mid-bite when he says this—not quietly—and I cough a little as I chew. “Uh, yes. I am.”
“Let me guess. He found someone better. Ain’t that always theway?” The waitress hands Roger his bottle of beer, and I really wish she didn’t. The last thing this man needs is more alcohol.
“Uh... your profile said you work with a hockey team?” I say, desperate to change the subject. “What do you do with them?”
He looks at me condescendingly and mutters, “Oh, babe, it’s not anything you’d understand,” he says, mouth full. “I’m divorced too. Married for nineteen years. She kicked me out last month.”
Last month?!This guy should not be dating if his marriage just ended a month ago.
“Said she was tired of doing everything alone.” He scoffs. A chunk of pizza falls out of his mouth. “Kept talking about socks or something on the bathroom floor, dishes in the sink, who knows. Like, I work all day. Right? And I gotta come home to that? Nah. Better off. More fish in the sea, right?”
He drops the half-eaten slice of pizza onto his plate. “Excuse me, Eileen, if I forget to pick up my socks once in a while. I’m forgetful. She knows that.”
And then—because just when you think a date can’t get worse, it absolutely will—Roger starts crying.
The other people at the table stare at him. James stares at him. I stare at him.
And Roger starts sobbing.
He’s quiet at first, muttering something about how he “promised to do better if she’d just take me back and let me try again.” But the sobs get progressively louder.
“Roger, maybe we should go outside for a minute,” I say. “Just until you, uh, get ahold of yourself?”
He covers his face with his hands, shoulders shaking, and lets out what I’d call a wail.
The others at the table are either looking away, like they don’t want to impose on this private moment Roger’s having—or looking at me, likeI’msupposed to do something.
There’s just one problem. I have no idea what to do. I don’t know this man.
I lean a little closer, and in my kindest, most nurturing voice, I say, “Hey, Roger, why don’t we take a little time-out?”
It’s like I’m negotiating with a toddler.
In response, Roger looks at me. “She’s dating a guy named Geoff. Did I tell you that? Plus he spells it like the stupid way with aG! Is your name Jeff or Gee-off?! What doesGee-offhave that I don’t have?”
