MARGAUX
THE FOLLOWING NIGHT
We head into town, and Timmy, for the moment, seems well-behaved. But his mood soon shifts.
“I feel like you’re dragging me to this show,” he says.
“Um, I told you I was going and that I’d get two tickets if you wanted to come. And if not, that I’d find someone else to go with,” I reply carefully.
He frowns, clearly unhappy at there being a Plan B. “Well, you make it sound like you didn’t want me to come.”
I sigh. “That’s not it. Iwantedyou to come. But I wasn’t going to force you. I really like Chelsea Handler, and would’ve gone whether you wanted to come with me or not.”
“Okay,” he sighs. “I’m just freaked out about it.”
I quirk a brow. “What aspect?”
“What if she picks on me?” he says.
“You literally told me youwantedher to pick on you,” I reply, confused. “You mentioned it so many times I even emailed Chelsea Handler and volunteered you as a target.”
“You did what?” he asks, his nervousness palpable.
“Oh, she probably won’t,” I say, brushing it off. “She’ll have a massive crowd and I’m sure she won’t single you out.”
He looks simultaneously relieved and disappointed—a perfect encapsulation of Timmy’s duality.
We get to the restaurant and sit down at the chef’s counter, watching as ingredients are chopped, sauteed and fried before our eyes.
“Can we order a cocktail?” Timmy asks, soon after we take our seats.
I glance at him.
Sure, what could one cocktail do?
“Okay,” I reply. “But just one.”
“Great!” he nods and smiles.
I pick out a classic daiquiri and he opts for a mezcal cocktail.
After a few minutes, mine comes out served up, and his is served in a tall glass filled with crushed ice. We take sips of each, and both drinks are boozy and flavorful.
Dinner is delicious—Asian fusion, with shared plates that we both enjoy—Vietnamese paté toast, garlic noodles, potato banh geo, manila clams in a tamarind crab broth, fried Brussels sprouts—even escargot.
“This is really nice,” he says, smiling as he assembles a perfect spoonful of clams in broth. “Thank you for bringing me here for my birthday.”
“You’re welcome!” I smile back. “It’s a nice evening out.”
But then he frowns. “I should’ve gotten a beer,” he says, his cocktail glass almost drained.
“Why? Don’t you like your cocktail?”
“It’s good,” he shrugs, “but a beer would’ve been stronger.”
I squint at him. “Timmy, this cocktail is much stronger than a beer would have been.”
“No,” he shakes his head, adamant. “It’s weaker. Look how much ice was in it.” He points at the glass which contains residual crushed ice.