Page 27 of The Bar Next Door
He sounds puzzled. “You do sell cock rings at the sex shop, don’t you?”
God, themauditsex shop. I forgot he still doesn’t know where I work; I was about to go off on a tangent about Taverne Toulouse. I don’t even know how to correct him. How do you tell someone you mislead them about your vocation and then reveal that you can’t go on a date because you’ve realized you’re not emotionally equipped to continue secretly soliciting information for a business in direct competition to theirs that you’ve been working for all along?
Nothing confusing or weird about that at all. It doesn’t help that I’m also now thinking about cock rings.
“Look, Julien, I know I agreed to the date, but I think it’s clear that we’re both very busy people, and—”
“And that’s why we should give this a go,” he cuts me off. “When was the last time you met someone who understands what it’s like to be a manager? Who always has to have their phone on? Who doesn’t know the meaning of a forty hour work week?”
In fact, most of my previous boyfriends barely knew the meaning of atwentyhour work week. They’d complain about me always being busy, but then when I actuallywasaround, they’d sit on the couch playingCall of Dutyor take me out on romantic dates to the Dominos pick-up counter.
Don’t get me wrong; pizza dates can be great, but if you tell me to prepare for a nice evening together and then make me come all the way out to Outremont just so we can grab a medium pepperoni and take it back to your mom’s basement, you are not worth the little free time I have.
A date with someone who actually understands the effort it takes to clear my evening—and the constant possibility that I might have to cut things short—sounds like just the kind of anomaly I dared not hope to find.
It would only be one date...
I mentally bitch slap myself. It was only supposed to be one drink. Now I’m contemplating one date. Next it’s going to be just one orgasm.
And who in their right mind can stop atoneorgasm?
“Julien, I can’t go on a date with you.”
“Voyons, be frank with me, would you?” He’s still chucking, but I can tell he’s taken aback. “May I ask why?”
“We...We’re too different.”
“Let’s go on a date so I can prove we’re not.”
I groan. “Julien...”
“It’s just a date, Monroe. You piqued my curiosity when you said you wanted to pick the bar. You can’t leave me hanging like this.”
“I’m sure you’ll find somebody else to pique your curiosity,” I shoot back.
That’s when I realize how well and truly screwed I am. I’ve spent a handful of hours in his company, and already the thought of him flirting with someone else makes me want to embrace my inner vengeful warrior woman and shoot arrows at her from a tree.
“I had a new idea about that bar you like,” he continues. “I was hoping to run it by you. Seeing as you seem to be their honorary guard dog, I want to know if you approve.”
I jerk and then freeze on the couch, my copy ofThe Brothers Karamazovsliding off my lap and onto the floor.
“What idea?” I rasp.
“I’d be happy to tell you...over drinks.”
The smugness in his tone brings me back to my senses.
“You’re manipulating me,” I accuse. “This isn’tThe Notebook. You don’t have to dangle yourself off a Ferris wheel to make me go on a date with you. It’s not going to work.”
“It’s not?”
“No, it’s not,” I fume, “so just tell me what the idea is.”
“Bon. Okay. The idea is...” He pauses, and I can hear my own bated breath echo in the receiver. “Mon dieu, you really want to know, don’t you?”
“Julien Valois!” I nearly screech. I don’t know how he turns me into such a maniac. He’s charming one second and infuriating the next.
“Go out with me. Just once. We’ll go wherever you want. I’lldrinkwhatever you want. I’ll even let you make me get a craft beer.”
