Page 44 of I Love My Mistake

Sexy Bartender: You still there?

Sexy Bartender: Sorry.

Sexy Bartender: Still on for Friday? I’m sorry. I just didn’t want to stop reading about you touching yourself. It was so hot. Can you blame me?

Sexy Bartender: Hello?

Sexy Bartender: I didn’t show my friends. Or tell them. I promise.

(Magic words)

Me: Okay. Friday’s on. But you are on thin ice.

Sexy Bartender: Understood.

(Silence from both our ends)

* * *

Now it’s Friday night.I’m sitting across from him at Scarpetta, a nice Italian restaurant, but I’m not feeling it. I’m not feeling the straight, hard lines of this restaurant, nor am I feeling the less-than-manly vibe from him now that his beard has been shaved off without warning. He had been growing it for a short film he booked where he’s bold and courageous. So that husky masculine man I met last week? An act by an actor.

But the food is delicious. I got the pancetta-wrapped pork chop and it is melting in my mouth. The words with which to speak to this guy? Not so much.

“So… you’re a painter,” he says, nodding. I can’t help but stare at the pinky finger he has shooting out from the wine glass he’s holding.

“I am. Yes.”

“What’s your day job?” He laughs at his own joke.

I smile and take another bite of chop.

I point to my mouth to indicate I’m chewing, while I pick up my glass and sip the red. I’m taking my time to answer since I hate this question more than any other. Why is it assumed that an artist can’t make a living in art? Some of the richest people in the world are artists, musicians, filmmakers, actors, etc. Like him! I mean, really. It’s nonsensical.

I take a breath, look around, and then lock on him. “Why would assume that my paintings aren’t covering the bills?” It sounds like an accusation when I hear it.

He hears it, too. And the war is on.

“You don’t have to get touchy about it,” he says behind wounded masculinity, which grates on my nerves, too. This isn’t a male-female thing. It’s a person-person one. But men never see it like that. You argue with them and they instantly think their dicks are shrinking. Says more about them than us, in my mind. And not all men. Just guys like him who have no idea who they really are yet. Children in hairy men-suits. So not hot.

I pick up my knife to slice off another distraction. “I’m not touchy. I was asking you.”

“It didn’t sound like a question,” he says.

I mumble, “Well, I’ll be more careful next time,” and pop a chunk of meat into my mouth. This is the only meat that will be going into my mouth tonight. Sigh.

He starts sucking on his teeth and the sound is gross and impossible to ignore. “And I have to bartend to pay the bills. But hey, you’re obviously better than I am.” The sarcasm whips my ears.

“Obviously.”

“This isn’t working out, is it?” he says, annoyed.

“Look…um…” I was about to say his name, but I have no idea what it is! Which is hilarious to me all of a sudden. The realization is so amusing that I start giggling uncontrollably. I cover my mouth with my hand to try to stop myself because laughing in somebody’s face is going too far, even for me.

“What’s funny?” he asks, growing progressively angrier. I don’t blame him!

“Nothing.” I squeak from behind fingers. A full-blown, gut-busting laugh bursts out of me. I clasp my other hand over the first, my eyes wide in embarrassment. But it’s too late – like when you’re a kid in church knowing you’re not supposed to laugh… and knowing that makes you laugh more.

“What is so funny!” he demands as tears come to my eyes from the giggles.