When we met, Owen wasn’t that great a kisser. I taught him a thing or two.

Jimmy drinks. I grope around for first-date conversation and come up empty. “Nice place,” I say.

“Mmm,” Jimmy answers.

Leo coughs. I don’t look over.

Eventually, Szabolcs brings our dinners, and lo and behold, mine smells like heaven, chicken swimming in a golden gravy, heavily sprinkled with cheerful paprika, a mountain of mashed potatoes to one side like an island. Jimmy digs right in to his goulash.

Thus, cheered by food, as always, I have a burst of conversational energy. “And what about you, Jimmy? You’re also divorced, right?”

“Yes.” He says nothing more, just washes down a mouthful of stew with his wine. That’s his entire answer. I sigh and take a bite of the chicken dish, which is unbelievably rich and succulent and delicious. I wonder if I could somehow drink the gravy. I wonder if Jimmy would notice if I did.

I ask if he likes to read. No. (Seriously? And he admits that?) I ask if he watches TV. Yes, mixed martial arts. He doesn’t ask what I watch. I ask if he has siblings. Yes. Does he like any sports, I ask? He guesses so.

Shit.

Meanwhile, I can’t stop looking at Leo. It’s not my fault! He’s right in my line of vision. Short of holding up my hand to block him, I almost have to see him.

His hair looks beautiful. It’s ridiculous that a man can have hair as beautiful as his, golden brown with the close-cropped curls, like a Roman emperor or something. It grows straight off his forehead, and he keeps it short. If he let it grow, he’d have Disney princess hair, I swear to God. He’s not eating much. Doesn’t seem to be drinking, either, just listening to the woman in the red dress and nodding occasionally.

Jimmy, on the other hand, has just poured the last of the wine into his glass. “You gonna drink that?” he asks me.

“Yeah,” I say, moving the glass closer to me.

“Figures.” He chugs half of his wine. “So your sister’s the one with the triplets, right?” he asks, his voice a little loud. Will have to make sure he’s not driving. Sigh.

“Yes. Three girls. They’re the light of my life.” I smile pleasantly.

“Oh, great.”

“How about you? Any nieces or nephews?”

“No, I mean great, another woman who wants kids. I mean, isn’t that why you’re here?”

“Um...excuse me?” I glance around, aware that several tables of diners have gone silent.

“You want kids?”

“Well, I... Yes. I do. Yep. But that’s not why—”

“Fucking A.” Jimmy hiccups. “So. You want me for my fluids, is that it?”

“What? Um...no!”

“Yes, you do! You want me for sperm!”

“Can you keep your voice down, Jimmy?”

“You know what? I’m a person, okay? A flesh-and-blood person!”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Are you? Because it sounds like you just want me for my sperm. You’ve been on my Facebook page, haven’t you?”

“No!” I mean, I have, but there was nothing about sperm, for the love of God.

“How about a little romance first, huh? Can we at least learn each other’s last names before you ask for a genetics workup?”

It appears I’ve hit a nerve. Or, more likely, Jimmy is both drunk and an ass. “Okay.” I stand up. “Lovely meeting you. I’ll leave my half for dinner with the maître d’.”

“And I’ll leave you a tissue sample so you can see if I’ve got what you’re looking for.”

“You don’t,” I say. It’s a good line, but he’s still ranting, so no one gets to hear it. Too bad.

I walk to the front of the restaurant. One of the busboys wiggles his eyebrows at me. Great. I am now that woman who wants sperm. Indeed, there is a murmuring as I walk past. Leo, however, fails to acknowledge me. He certainly doesn’t come to my rescue. Not that I need rescuing, but if he jumped up and said, “Hey, Jenny!” and kissed my cheek, that would sure be nice.

The maître d’ isn’t at his station. I wait, feeling the eyes of the entire restaurant on me. Ah. Here comes someone. Zoltan, the nametag says. He makes my waiter look like an adolescent.

“Everything delicious, yes?” he wheezes.

“Yes. Thank you. I just need to pay for my half of our bill.”

He sighs. “Your waiter? Who?”

I have no freakin’ idea how to pronounce my waiter’s name. Indeed, trying to picture his nametag just results in a blur of consonants. “I’m not sure. His name had a C in it. And an S. And a Z.”

Meanwhile, Jimmy is delivering a fiery speech on how men are no longer needed or valued in society except for their tiny little swimmers, and how if women had their way, all men would be chained in cells and only taken out when a woman was ovulating. Which actually sounds pretty good about now.

“How about if I leave sixty bucks?” I suggest. “Will that cover it?”

“I come back soon,” Zoltan whispers, then shuffles away.

Yeah. I forgot how bad dating sucked.

And now Leo and Red Dress are approaching. I stare stonily ahead, hoping Leo can read the “piss off” message I’m trying so hard to convey. I scratch my nose with my middle finger in case he misses the point.

“Well, it was so, so great to see you again,” Red Dress says. “You look good.”