Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78108 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78108 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
But age is just a number, right? I’m not bothered by a slight photo mismatch. Or a not-so-slight one.
As I approach, he stares past me without recognition, like he’s waiting for someone else. Hmm. Maybe I got him wrong? He did say he’d wear a black scarf, and he’s the only one since it’s, you know, summer. Still, he really seems to be expecting someone different.
Nerves swoop through me, but I soldier on. Maybe the prescription on those glasses is as out of date as his profile picture. Besides, what’s the worst that could happen when he sees me? He’ll pretend to be someone else? I’ll deal.
When I reach him, I give my best, most cheerful smile. “I’m Juliet. You must be Elijah.”
He surveys me quizzically for a few seconds before he breaks the silence with a strained, “Yes. I am.”
Oh god. He hates my hair. My face. My nose. My…everything?
But then he seems to dismiss whatever is concerning him, and he pastes on a smile. “Good to meet you at last, Juliet.”
He stares at me with a burning intensity. Not once, not for a freaking second, does he break eye contact.
It’s a little much, but I’m not going to toss him out this early for a little eye contact. If I did, I’d lose the bet.
And, more importantly, the eight p.m. seating.
A folk singer croons about love and luck while Elijah and I discuss types of cheese. It’s been a solid-ish date so far, aside from the extreme eye contact.
“Cheese-making is an art form, don’t you think?” Elijah plucks a slice of Camembert from the charcuterie board, holding it up to consider intently.
“I imagine so,” I say. “I would think it requires passion, craft, and commitment.” That’s just a guess. I don’t have a clue what it takes to make this delicacy.
“And each bite builds on the next,” he says. “A true progression in flavors. A good cheese tasting, then, has to be treated like a blank canvas.”
As he waxes on, he continues to study my face. Like, lab-experiment-under-a-microscope type study. His eyes tour my forehead and down my neck as if he’s cataloging my appearance for a scientific journal.
I don’t know what to make of his level of interest, so I try to keep the mood light. “You’d need a cheese creator and a cheese curator. Are they the same though?” I ask playfully, spearing a small piece of Gouda and popping it into my mouth with a bright smile.
You can do this. He might stop sounding like a cheese douche any second now. If I don’t give him the opportunity, how will I know?
A year ago, I would have cut my losses early. I ended romances that were going nowhere. Now I wondered if I should have given some of those “maybe” guys a chance while there were still a few non-wackadoodle men left in the dating pool.
But Elijah’s not a wackadoodle. He’s just intense. I focus on his good qualities like, for instance, he’s clean. A recent shower is a nice change from my last date, who believed that daily showers were a symptom of the consumerist chokehold on the working class. Me, I like rebellions that start with soap.
Moving away from the danger of cheese elitism is the perfect chance to flex my dating muscles. I’m naturally curious, so it’s easy to ask a question about his work. “Speaking of art, here’s something I’ve always wanted to know about graffiti art. Do you sketch out your work in advance? Do you have to sketch it on a huge canvas, or can you scale it down?”
Elijah goes starkly silent for several seconds. Then several more. Funny, I didn’t think that question was a stumper. Maybe my graffiti insight has struck him speechless.
“Everything okay?” I ask, just in case he’s not thinking, Graffiti questions and cheese, and she doesn’t care that I’m a dozen years older than my picture? The algo loves me.
Finally, he shakes his head like he’s shaking off a daze and blurts: “I’m so sorry. But I thought you were twenty-five.”
Wait. Why would he think that? “You…did?”
“In your pictures. On the app. You looked younger.”
I blink, trying to orient myself to this next-level “Weird Shit I’ve Heard on Dates.” I’ve heard I only date models, I just got out of jail, and Would you give me a bath tonight?
But did he really just accuse me of lying?
No. He accused me of a worse dating sin in his book—looking old.
“They’re literally photos from this year,” I say, irked. “My profile says I’m thirty. Which I am. And all those pics were from the spring.” Breezily, I add, “I’m a big believer in using recent pics.”
Translation: I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt, but we both know I’M NOT THE LIAR HERE.
The message is lost on Elijah, who points a finger and eyes me skeptically. “In this one pic, you were outside on the ferry just before sunset. The wind was blowing.”