Chapter 6
Chapter Six
HAPPILY EVER BEFORE
Arden
I'm sitting across from Gabriel, at what he assures me is 'the best new fusion place in Boston.' We found ourselves in a relationship of convenience. The only thing making it a relationship is really the exclusivity and consistency of schedules. I don't know precisely how long it's been a thing— I've made it a habit not to keep track since discovering relationships are easier when they don't survive past the two-month mark. But a thing it is, though his lack of leaving behind even a phone charger is a constant reminder that he also is just here for the adequacy of it rather than some great love story.
For that, I have books.
There was the momentary meet-cute in the elevator at work when we both reached for the same floor, and his smile and warm hands implied there might be this divine intervention of serendipitous timing. But alas, by the feeling of it now it is just more likely that I work in a densely populated office that is a merry-go-round of men.
He's fine, really . Tonight is just one of those days I'm far more critical of those around me, likely in an effort to distract myself.
He's spent the last twenty minutes explaining inflation to me in the tone of voice usually reserved for explaining shapes to toddlers. Every so often I throw out a harmless 'can't we just print more money?' to really get him going as I order another glass of wine and he swirls his finger in the air to the waiter to indicate he'd also like another.
When did it happen that all dating feels like everyone is either trying too hard or not trying at all.
Ordering for both of us. Trying too hard.
So now I'm staring at what appears to be deconstructed sushi that's been reconstructed into abstract art. I'm a fan of art. I'm a fan of sushi. I'm also a fan of sustenance after a long work day which is why the most appealing thing to me is the plate of crispy, salty salvation in potato form.
Truffle fries that he ordered but never offered to share. Not trying at all.
In the last few months, we went through the standard this-is-a-date motions. Lucky me, now he knows my middle name. Not like he'll ever need to use it. We got to know each other just well enough to get to the point of sexual compatibility. Which is one area he is better than most, probably the reason this has lasted as long as it has.
But the rest of it?
My mind wanders most when unstimulated by company. And given the happening recently with the Hunger Games at work, it's easy to be distracted as Gabriel prattles on.
I think about Reid's emails, about pacing myself, about marathons not sprints. Funny, we never made it to the finish line. But watching Gabriel meticulously dissect another french fry, I can't imagine this is what I am supposed to slow down for?
"And that's when I told the investors—" he pauses mid-sentence, probably for dramatic effect, and I realize that I've been staring at his fries for so long I've completely lost track of his monologue about disrupting the whatever industry.
"Sorry," I say, not sorry at all, "I was just thinking about how this reminds me of something I read recently about the intersection of technology and human connection." It's a complete lie , the fact that I was thinking about it, not that I read the article, which actually was really interesting. But his eyes light up like I've just given him enough runway to keep going.
"Exactly!" he exclaims, launching into what I'm sure will be another riveting monologue. I let my mind drift back to my email exchange with Reid, thinking about how he would probably approve of him on paper, they'd maybe even be friends. He's ambitious, career focused, clearly knows how to network…
But Reid would have asked if I wanted one of his french fries.
It’s a dangerous thing when you start measuring people by who they aren't. And sometimes, like tonight, you measure them by the simple fucking ability to offer you a french fry. It's probably not a metric a psychologist would endorse, but then again, I don’t imagine many of them have watched a man eat french fries with a knife and fork while explaining the Econ-101 principles to a woman in the same field.
I check my watch, wondering if it's too early to fake an emergency. The night stretches ahead like his pitch deck, endless and full of questionable projections , which of course he has taken me through page by painful page. Not asking for my opinion, of which I have many , just enjoying that supportive nod I've mastered at work.
Which I do, until I can run out the clock and then just run out.
Despite hoping there would be chemistry during our meeting, the only buttons we'll ever push together would be each other's.