I arrive early at the restaurant, but I was driving myself crazy pacing my shoebox apartment and had to get out of the cramped space. I took my sister’s advice about the sweater and paired it with a pair of charcoal chinos that make my ass look nice and my legs well-formed instead of skinny. My beard is trimmed, my hair perfect, my teeth brushed, and I’m ready.
The place is mostly empty; two older gentlemen occupy a table by the entrance, next to the scraggly plastic Christmas tree decorated with dusty tinsel garlands that look like they’re at least as old as I am. Aside from them, the place is empty. The waiter—with red-rimmed eyes and a shuffling step that speaks of an excess of alcohol the previous day—shows me to our booth. I sit in the same spot as I did on our first date, hidden awa
