traditional custom of the man bearing the financial burden may be forgone in the ritual of “going Dutch”; the origin of this ritual is often attributed to the Netherlands where—
Jeez, forget I asked.
“Um, tell me about your name,” I say when our waitress leaves us. “It’s a little unusual.”
“It was my grandmother’s.”
“Really. Where was she from?”
“You wouldn’t know it from the name, but she grew up in France. A little south of Paris. I went there once when I was a kid. They still speak French there today, if you can believe it.”
I scoff. Leave it to the French to defy world order while the rest of us speak Unified English.
“She and my grandfather died when I was fourteen. Automobile accident—some crazy guy rammed their tram with one of those old gas cars. They both died instantly.”
Her explanation sobers the mood a little; if she’s lying, she’s very accomplished at it. I ask about her job, her hobbies, her favorite things about the city—all subjects intended to reveal inconsistencies in her identity, which are easy enough to cross-reference against the xchange stats hovering in my social buffer. Interrogation or flirtatious curiosity, she’s either too highQ for me, or she’s the real thing. Not one of her responses seems to be anything other than the honest truth.
And the way she keeps looking at me? Wow. I haven’t the slightest idea what has attracted her to me, but let’s just say I could very easily forget that I’m not on the market.
“You’re cute,” she announces abruptly. My heart flip-flops.
“Um, I think your definition of cute may be a little off.” She laughs and I feel my cheeks flush.
“Maybe,” she admits. “I think it goes deeper than appearance, though. You’re different than other guys I’ve met.”
Relaxing a little, I sip at what’s left of my cappuccino. “How so?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she mutters shyly. I shrug and level a patient stare; there’s no unringing that bell. Mitzy realizes this and eventually relents with a grudging smile. Her pretty eyes narrow as she takes me in, slowly and methodically. A moment later, she sighs. “Well, for one, you don’t exactly dress the part, do you?”
“What do you mean? What part?”
She giggles. “You know, a ladies’ man.”
I scoff at the absurdity. “Me? Oh, that’s funny. What else?”
She bites her lip, gaze pushing through my eyes to some plane far beyond them. I sense that the conversation is about to go a little deeper than I’ve been in a while, but I don’t stop her. I’m not sure I could if I wanted to. “I kind of get the feeling you don’t quite… um, belong.”
I feel my heart deflate, but I try to smile anyway. “Wow. How flattering.” I lean back in my seat, crossing my arms.
Mitzy covers her mouth with a cringe. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”
I wave off her apology. “It’s fine, really. Besides, you’re right. This place,” I nod toward the window, into Vegas’s pretentious cityscape, “isn’t really my thing.”
The brightness in her eyes fades a notch and her mouth forms a bittersweet curve. “That’s not quite what I mean,” she says softly.
Meeting her gaze, I nod slowly. The truth is, I know exactly what she means.
I feel her hand seek out mine and the world seems to flicker. “The thing is, Wilson,” she says quietly, “Neither do I.”
An hour or more later, I walk her outside to the street. As we stand by the tram tracks, radioactive in the glow of blinking neon, I realize she really is exceptionally pretty. Just not necessarily in the conventional way—her charm is a vital component, and with it added to the equation of her allure, she’s truly a delightful creature.
A tram clatters through the moment and cinches against the curb at our feet. I’m hesitant to let her go; after talking with her, I feel more confused than ever. I’m afraid of what might happen if I dare to stick with her—because
Jeez, forget I asked.
“Um, tell me about your name,” I say when our waitress leaves us. “It’s a little unusual.”
“It was my grandmother’s.”
“Really. Where was she from?”
“You wouldn’t know it from the name, but she grew up in France. A little south of Paris. I went there once when I was a kid. They still speak French there today, if you can believe it.”
I scoff. Leave it to the French to defy world order while the rest of us speak Unified English.
“She and my grandfather died when I was fourteen. Automobile accident—some crazy guy rammed their tram with one of those old gas cars. They both died instantly.”
Her explanation sobers the mood a little; if she’s lying, she’s very accomplished at it. I ask about her job, her hobbies, her favorite things about the city—all subjects intended to reveal inconsistencies in her identity, which are easy enough to cross-reference against the xchange stats hovering in my social buffer. Interrogation or flirtatious curiosity, she’s either too highQ for me, or she’s the real thing. Not one of her responses seems to be anything other than the honest truth.
And the way she keeps looking at me? Wow. I haven’t the slightest idea what has attracted her to me, but let’s just say I could very easily forget that I’m not on the market.
“You’re cute,” she announces abruptly. My heart flip-flops.
“Um, I think your definition of cute may be a little off.” She laughs and I feel my cheeks flush.
“Maybe,” she admits. “I think it goes deeper than appearance, though. You’re different than other guys I’ve met.”
Relaxing a little, I sip at what’s left of my cappuccino. “How so?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she mutters shyly. I shrug and level a patient stare; there’s no unringing that bell. Mitzy realizes this and eventually relents with a grudging smile. Her pretty eyes narrow as she takes me in, slowly and methodically. A moment later, she sighs. “Well, for one, you don’t exactly dress the part, do you?”
“What do you mean? What part?”
She giggles. “You know, a ladies’ man.”
I scoff at the absurdity. “Me? Oh, that’s funny. What else?”
She bites her lip, gaze pushing through my eyes to some plane far beyond them. I sense that the conversation is about to go a little deeper than I’ve been in a while, but I don’t stop her. I’m not sure I could if I wanted to. “I kind of get the feeling you don’t quite… um, belong.”
I feel my heart deflate, but I try to smile anyway. “Wow. How flattering.” I lean back in my seat, crossing my arms.
Mitzy covers her mouth with a cringe. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”
I wave off her apology. “It’s fine, really. Besides, you’re right. This place,” I nod toward the window, into Vegas’s pretentious cityscape, “isn’t really my thing.”
The brightness in her eyes fades a notch and her mouth forms a bittersweet curve. “That’s not quite what I mean,” she says softly.
Meeting her gaze, I nod slowly. The truth is, I know exactly what she means.
I feel her hand seek out mine and the world seems to flicker. “The thing is, Wilson,” she says quietly, “Neither do I.”
An hour or more later, I walk her outside to the street. As we stand by the tram tracks, radioactive in the glow of blinking neon, I realize she really is exceptionally pretty. Just not necessarily in the conventional way—her charm is a vital component, and with it added to the equation of her allure, she’s truly a delightful creature.
A tram clatters through the moment and cinches against the curb at our feet. I’m hesitant to let her go; after talking with her, I feel more confused than ever. I’m afraid of what might happen if I dare to stick with her—because
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