A Second Bite at the Apple by Dana Bate Page B

possess at least a modicum of self-awareness that tells me making out in the middle of a restaurant is trashy.
    Jeremy and I make our way toward the exit. As we pass the hostess stand, he touches the small of my back, ever so gently, and sends a thrill shooting through my body like lightning.
    â€œWhere to?” he asks.
    I hesitate outside the front door. Is this a your-place-or-mine type of question? Or does he actually want to do something, like go to a jazz club or share a nightcap? I have very little experience with this. I don’t know the rules.
    â€œUm, not sure . . .” I look at my watch. “Holy crap—it’s ten thirty already.”
    He chuckles. “Is that late for you?”
    â€œKind of.” I catch myself. “Wow. That sounded even lamer out loud than it did in my head. The thing is, I used to work on a morning news show. My bedtime was nine o’clock. Ten at the latest.”
    Only when I say this do I realize how little we discussed our careers—current and former—over the course of our three-and-a-half-hour date. I mentioned wanting to be a food writer, and he talked a little about his job in PR, but mostly we just talked about our lives. We talked about our favorite foods and college memories, where we’ve been in the world, and where we’d still like to go. We talked about what movies and books have shaped our views and what sort of music makes us happy. We talked about what makes us . . . well, us, without any mention of our vocations. In a city where what you do and where you work often defines you, I find this very refreshing.
    Jeremy claps his hands together. “Well, I’d hate to keep you up past your bedtime. I’ll walk you home. We can stay out late another time.”
    He slips into his coat, and we stroll up Fourteenth Street, past the Studio Theatre and a bunch of closed storefronts, moving in silence through the chilled February air. As we reach the corner of Fourteenth and R, he brushes against my shoulder, and another bolt of lightning shoots through me from head to toe. I can’t deny it: I like this guy.
    But, as a general rule, nothing in my life goes smoothly when it has the potential to become excruciatingly awkward, and so as we proceed up Swann Street toward my house, I spot my crazy downstairs neighbor, Simon, standing on our front stoop, up to his usual freaky tricks. Tonight, he is applying duct tape over the doorbell to his unit.
    â€œIs this your place . . . ?” Jeremy mutters as I turn through the hip-height gate in front of my building.
    â€œYep.”
    He lowers his voice and whispers in my ear. “Who is that guy?”
    â€œMy downstairs neighbor,” I whisper back. “He’s a little weird.”
    I pull away, and Jeremy raises his eyebrows without replying, as if to say, You think?
    â€œHi, Simon,” I say as we approach the front steps. “What are you doing?”
    He glances over his shoulder and drags his eyes across me and Jeremy. “My doorbell isn’t working. It makes an annoying buzzing sound.”
    â€œHave you told Al?”
    He smoothes the sides of the duct tape into place. “Yes. He’ll fix it Monday. But until then, I don’t want to be disturbed.”
    Considering I’ve never seen anyone visit Simon, I’m not sure what he’s worried about.
    Jeremy casts a sideways glance in my direction, unsure of what to say or do. The three of us are just standing on the front steps together: me, my date, and my supremely bizarre neighbor. I may not have much experience with dating, but I feel comfortable saying this is one of the stranger ways to end an evening.
    Simon clutches his roll of duct tape and runs a hand over his buzz cut. “Well, good night,” he finally says. He walks inside and slams the front door behind him.
    â€œDude, that guy is creepy,” Jeremy says.
    â€œHe’s harmless. Just a loner who keeps to