Margot’s eyes flick to mine, looking uncertain. “But if this were a real date, I would offer to pay my share. I don’t want to feel like I owe my date something at the end of the night.”
“First lesson of dating: if the guy offers to pay, let him. If he makes you feel like you owe him something because of it, walk away feeling good about the fact that you wasted nothing but an hour of your time. But this isn’t a real date, and you have a spreadsheet full of upcoming furniture purchases to make, so I’m paying tonight.”
“Okay,” Margot relents, withdrawing her hand from her purse. “Thank you.”
The bartender returns with our drinks, and we each take a sip.
“Oh, I almost forgot: the purchasing department finally got back to me about those POs…”
I shake my head, cutting her off. “No work talk tonight. We’re supposed to be strangers on a first date.”
“Right,” she says, taking another quick sip of her wine.
I lean back against the seat and flash a casual smile her way. Margot’s posture is rigid, as if even the words “first date” have stretched her nerves tight under her skin. She fidgets with the stem of her wine glass and gives me a weird, forced smile. There’s no way my horrible disguise is workingthatwell. Or at all, if we’re being honest. If she’s this nervous just pretending tobe on a date with me, I can’t imagine how nervous she gets on a real first date with a complete stranger.
“So, Margot, tell me about yourself,” I say to break the ice.
She looks amused, and slightly appalled, by my question.
“What?” I ask.
“I just thought you’d have a more creative opening line than that.”
I laugh. “Oh, I do, but most guys don’t, so you should have your answer ready.”
“Okay,” she nods, mulling it over slowly. “Well, I spend most of my money on books and most of my time at work.”
It’s a good answer, concise but informative, but I don’t break character to tell her so. We can go over some notes later.
“Oh yeah? What do you do for work?” I ask instead.
“I’m an executive assistant for an outdoor recreation supply company.”
Okay, slightly vague, but I suppose it’s not the worst idea to keep the company name a secret until she knows the guy a little better.
“Do you like working there?” I press, trying to keep her talking.
“Yes.”
I know she’s not lying, but she fails to elaborate any further. Holding her gaze, I cock an eyebrow at her, hoping she takes it as a cue to keep talking. Instead, she takes a large gulp from her wine glass and looks anywhere but directly at me.
I try again. “You must get a great employee discount. Do you enjoy camping and hiking?”
She looks at me like I just coughed up a hairball into her wine glass. “Not really.”
Okay, that’s… something. I wait for more, but Margot just shifts nervously in her seat instead.
“I think I’m starting to see the problem here,” I say.
“See? I told you I’m weird with all this first date stuff. I hate talking about myself. I just feel so awkward.”
She deflates a little, adjusting her glasses on her nose. It kills me to see her looking so lost and hopeless. Margot is a perfectionist. When she perceives that she’s done something wrong, she’s way too hard on herself. I’ve seen it at work, and I see it right now. She’s disengaging, too lost in her own self-destructive thoughts to remain present in the moment.
Clearly, this isn’t working.
“Okay, new plan,” I announce.
15