Page 32 of David's Love

Cracking a smile, I look down.

“Something like that,” I comment, focusing on my pizza. “I can’t get the male lead right.”

She laughs, amused.

“Tell me about it. That’s the book you should write. Nobody can get the male lead right.”

We both chuckle.

“No one will read that book. I think we like that we don’t get him right.”

I pin my eyes on her, and she evades my stare.

She hasn’t talked about men since she had an encounter with that man in that club.

“We’re gluttons for pain,” she mutters philosophically, and I withhold a comment.

She swallows the last piece of pizza from her plate and scoops up another slice.

“I think you should try your hand at something lighter,” she says, her eyes glinting with excitement at the idea of more pizza.

The way these simple things work makes us happy.

“Like thrillers?” I suggest, smiling.

She gestures at me.

“Yeah. Why not? Add some humor to them, and you'll have a dark comedy.

“Not many people will laugh, though.”

“You never know.”

“That’s true.”

I pause for a moment.

“I might, though. I want to write. I just don’t want to write a romantic story. It’s not in me right now.”

“There,” she agrees, just as my phone buzzes.

I take it out of my pocket and notice an alert on that app. It’s that man again. The random guy with a weird account name. A string of letters and numbers and no profile picture.

Although right below, he put his name. Fabio.

You can’t make this up.

Well, Fabio gives me the creeps.

I don’t answer, and I ponder ways of blocking him, if that’s even possible.

I am kind of starting to question this entire setup.

Can people truly scrap your info from these places?

I mean, nothing is out there in the open, but what do I know? I have colleagues who can track people down using their phone numbers.

I hope that’s not the case here, and this is not one of those guys.

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