To be fair, we had casually discussed the menu items in a second-date kind of way, and had agreed that we both were tempted by the lovingly described chicken breasts. I was having that warm fuzzy (and quite ridiculous) feeling you get when your date wants the same food as you, and simultaneously trying to ignore it as you know it doesn’t actually mean a damn. You both just like chicken. Whoopy-doo.
The waitress ambled over in that I’m-going-to-be-unobtrusive way they adopt with obvious daters, and I gave the quick open-hand signal to indicate I was going to stick to the polite rule I was taught since infancy, and let my date order first.
“Two Chickens, please!”
…and the hairs on the back of my neck prickled alarmingly. I immediately sensed that something really fundamentally terrible had just happened.
OK, we all get a little fuzzed out on where the boundary between me and not-me is drawn sometimes, that’s only human, but when someone seems not to know there even is a line then you really only have yourself to blame if you persist.
What I should have done is interrupted, calmly informed everyone I was no longer hungry, pay for (my) drink and leave.
But I didn’t. And boy oh boy did I come to regret that later.
She was just so damned pretty.