The Trade(11)

“You know it’s because she charges you by the minute, right?”

“Well aware. I got her bill the other day and nearly choked on my own tongue. She’s expensive.”

“As all good lawyers are.” The waiter sets two glasses of water in front of us and a loaf of hot Italian bread followed by some olive oil to dip it into. “You’re an angel. Thank you.”

He gives her a wink and then takes off.

“Don’t flirt with the waiter, you’re married.”

“He brought me food. I would flirt with a cow at this point if it pointed its udder in my mouth and squirted.” She rips a piece of bread from the loaf and dips it in the olive oil, then shoves the entire thing in her mouth. Leaning back in her chair, she moans and grips the table while she chews. “Thank the good Lord for such meager rations. I would have taken anything at this point.” Finishing chewing, she swallows and helps herself to another piece while asking, “Okay, tell me. How did the date go?”

“Well . . . he bit me.”

Monica pauses, bread lifted to her mouth. “Excuse me?”

Casually, I tear myself a bite as well and swirl it in the oil. “You heard me correctly. He bit me.”

“Like . . . bit your nipple in a passionate make-out session?”

I shake my head. “Nope. All clothes were on. He bit my shoulder.”

Looking more confused than ever, Monica twirls her finger around when she says, “You’re going to have to rewind and slowly explain to me what happened.”

Exhaling my frustration from being thrown into the dating world again, I say, “He seemed really nice when we were chatting through the app.”

“As all of them do.”

“So when he asked me out to coffee this morning, I thought—”

“Why aren’t you working?” Monica asks with a pointed look. “Men who want coffee midday aren’t catches; it should be a red flag. Why aren’t they working?”

“He said he was self-employed.”

“Doing what?”

I bite my bottom lip in shame. “In between ideas he said.”

Monica rolls his eyes. “Red flag, should have left then.”

“I know, but I felt bad. I mean, he could very well be between ideas.”

“That’s not even a viable—” Monica takes a calming breath and waves her hand in my direction. “I’m getting heated, please continue.”

Ever since I told Monica that my marriage was over because Ansel cheated, she’s made it her mission to reassure me that I’m going to find someone better, someone hotter, someone with more muscles, and someone with a bigger dick. As best friends do. And it will be a dick so big that it scares me at first but then turns into the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Her words, not mine.

And to be honest, I wouldn’t mind a bigger dick, but what I really want is someone to appreciate me for who I am, not the person they want me to be.

You’re going to find someone amazing.

Ansel is going to regret ever cheating on you.

You deserve so much better than him.

He wasn’t even that attractive in the first place; you totally settled.

It took him two years to figure out how to make you come on his tongue.

That last one was true, but we were middle school sweethearts. He’s the only guy I’ve ever been with. We fumbled around together, trying to figure out the whole sex thing, so yeah, it took us a little while to get it right, but we did. And it was . . . nice.

According to Monica, “nice” isn’t how you should describe sex. Nice is how you describe your father’s Christmas Eve sweater, not a passionate romp with your husband. Maybe that should have been clue number one that we weren’t going to be together forever.

“The conversation was good, we were joking about different things. He seems a little predatory though, because when he sat down, he sat next to me rather than across.”

Monica stabs the table with her finger. “Red flag.”

“And he kept shifting his hand over his crotch.”

“Red flag.” She dips her bread.

“And when I said I liked Panera, he agreed with a passion I’ve never seen before.”

Monica nearly pops out of her chair as she scarily points at me. “Red flag. No man should ever openly like Panera with passion.”

“Yeah, I should have stopped there, because that’s when things started to turn the corner into really weird and this man might be a psycho.”

She jabs the table passionately. “I will say it to the day I die. Any man who openly says he enjoys Panera is a psychopath.” Not the first time Monica has gone on this rant. “Of course, they like it. Panera is impossible to hate especially when Fall rolls around and their autumn squash soup is advertised all over the GD store, you can’t help but be in love.” She dabs her mouth with her napkin. “The man you need to find is the man who pretends to hate Panera and then when you suggest it, he groans but secretly dances like a little girl inside over the prospect of dipping a crusty baguette in soup for dinner.”

“He was openly in love with Panera.”

She shrugs and leans back. “Psycho. Simple. So how did this turn into him biting you?”

“Well, once we started talking about Panera, I think I made an off-hand comment about Panera being my love language.”