I pick you up in my 2002 Mazda Protege. ES edition.
As you enter my sensible, fuel-efficient vehicle, you’re enveloped by the erotic perfume of pine air freshener and cool ranch Doritos.
Perched in the cup holders are two wineglasses.
On the armrest, a box of Franzia Reserve.
We clink glasses, toasting the evening ahead: “Isn’t this illegal?” you whisper sensually.
“Only if driving under the influence of passion is against the law” I reply sexily. And with that, my 4-door compact sedan slowly accelerates us into the night.
I take you to a fine restaurant. And as we enter the grand lobby of the Cheesecake Factory
we’re warmly greeted by the maitre d, Tiffany. They know me here.
By the time we get to our impossibly large booth, you’re already enchanted by the restaurant’s stucco elegance. I watch you struggle with the multi-volume menu. The epicurean possibilities have overwhelmed you. So I take control and order for us.
All 237 items.
An endless line of former art-history majors and improv enthusiasts forms a processional of Buffalo wings, sliders and Chicken Piccata, all destined for us. After sampling the Tex Mex Egg Rolls and French Toast Napoleon, you rest your fork, defeated. The luxurious presentation of food continues unabated.
Emerging from your food coma, you ask in a low husky voice, “Can you afford to pay for all of this?” Reaching across the faux-marble table, I take your hand in mine, gaze deeply into your sparkling eyes, and charmingly reply: “I forgot my wallet at home. I’m going to need to borrow some money from you. And by some, I mean a lot.” You are speechless.
Initially, I fear that my words of seduction have rocked you into a catatonic state. But then I notice your eyes looking up and to the right. Towards the entrance. Your yearning desire to pay the bill is clear to me. As is your desire to make out with me in the parking lot of this casual, but upscale, chain restaurant. The sexual tension between us is so thick that we could cut it with one of the many steak knives that litter our table.
But instead of paying the bill, you excuse yourself to visit the restroom. You take your purse, jacket and all other personal possessions with you, saying you’ll return shortly. 10 minutes pass. Then 20. I start to worry that you’re not coming back. But then I remember something that puts my fears to rest. Of course you’re coming back. We still need to order dessert.
Shamir, Future Islands, Tobias Jesso Jr, Danny Brown, Talking Heads