Page 7 of Debugging Love

“That was a joke.”

“Which part?”

He tilts his head and smirks.

“Usually when someone is joking, they follow it with a laugh.”

“I guess I’m unusual.”

“You said it, not me,” I say as I brush past him.

Chapter 3

Danni

We descend to the second floor and choose a table for two on the starboard side. Chance pulls out a chair and plops into it before I reach the table. No matter. I’m capable of pulling out my own chair, which I do. I sit gingerly on my left butt cheek and lean heavily on my elbow.

The dining room walks the line between elegant and tacky. Chandeliers shaped like upside-down mushrooms light the center of the room. Navy curtains frame each window, their scooping valances meant to add opulence. Several yards away on the small stage, a jazz band plays at a low volume to allow for conversation. Unfortunately.

I bury my head in my menu and pretend to scour the offerings. As the silence between us drags on, the Port of Charleston floats by with its terminals and boats stacked with shipping containers.

The waiter arrives to take our order and our distraction, plucking the menus from our fingers, leaving us nothing to do but stare at each other.

“Do you like jazz?” Chance asks.

“Sure. Do you?”

“It’s okay.” He shrugs and leans back in his chair, opening his body to the room.

He scans the crowd. I scan him. He might be more than a ten. Maybe an eleven or twelve.

His eyes come to rest on something. I turn my head to look. Four tables over, a slender young blonde woman is staring at him. She flits her eyes to the floor. The gentleman across from her is buried in his menu, unaware that his date just stole from the eye-candy bowl.

“You were checking her out,” I say.

“No, I wasn’t.”

“You like blondes. You were trying to snag a blonde with your profile picture.”

Chance waves away my comment.

I cross my arms and look over Chance’s shoulder at the older couple swaying on the dance floor. My eyes drift to the heavy, draped curtain over the stage. “The decor is slightly over-the-top, don’t you think?”

“I’m half Indian. We invented over the top.”

“You don’t like your country’s aesthetic?”

“I love it.”

Our conversation hits another stop sign. I cross my leg, wiggle my right foot, feel the tug of my phone. I’ll just check the time.

It’s seven o’clock. The boat doesn’t dock until nine. Great.

I tap Instagram and start scrolling. Rather than offending Chance, my descent into social media oblivion seems to permit him to do the same. He pulls his phone from his pocket, rests an elbow on his knee, and immerses himself in the screen.

“Are you checking Farmers Only?” I say without looking up.

“No,” is all I get in response.

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