Mr. Romance Jr.

It's windy, she says. He looks up and it is windy. She takes a shower and dresses for work. He kisses her and says happy birthday, reservations at 630. She leaves pissed the fuck off that he didn't respond properly when she made the comment about the wind. He jacks off all over himself, his thick, pink meat half hard. Tera Patrick in a limo. He tastes it, and thinks about on-the-bone bloody prime rib and potatoes fried in goose fat and scallops the size of urinal cakes and a sixteen-dollar slice of chocolate cake.

Where are you? she says in a dinner-is-ruined-and-we-haven't-even-eaten-yet tone. I'm at the restaurant, he says. I called three times, left a message trying to find out where we were meeting. He should have known to meet her at work. She hangs up. The bartender's name is Liam and his voice booms when he repeats the order: Amstel! People around him have names like Rory and Fitzpatrick and discuss detox cleanses and add "ish" to the end of a lot of words. He eats some candied cashews, walnuts.

She shows up. She checks her coat. He sets his beer on the host's silver tray and they are seated. They order and then stare at each other. A fork scrapes a plate. A knife sinks into the thick, pink meat like it was moving through water. Someone at another table laughs, a candle flickers, and he watches her chew.

~O~