Instant Love by Jami Attenberg

of Christmas lights, which raced all the way from the front of the restaurant to the back. Each table also had tea lights, but beyond that, there was no lighting. Most tables were only for two, and the tables were small. You would have to sit close to someone is what I’m trying to say here. There would be nowhere else to go.
    Gareth was wearing just a suit jacket and pants this time, but I could tell they had been tailor-made. I had mustered up a black sweater (the better to hide stains) and a long, loose cotton skirt, the edges of which were crumpled like a failed love letter in the trash. Gareth touched me hesitantly on the shoulder, then told me I looked beautiful.
    “Black is your color,” he said.
    “Black is everyone’s color,” I said.
    The host—a short, dark man with cigarette-stained teeth—greeted Gareth by name, then escorted us through the restaurant to a small patio lined with ivy. Several torches filled with citronella candles blazed as posts to the patio. There were only two other tables. Ours was clearly the best. It made me feel proud, and then my stomach lurched, as if I had stopped short in a speeding car, just moments away from an accident, but somehow, through the grace of God, had saved myself.
    After Gareth ordered what I presumed was an expensive bottle of wine (the flourish of his hand, the way his voice ended on a high note, the generous nod of the waiter in response all made me feel like something important was happening), I turned to him and said, “So, Gareth, tell me about you. I don’t know much except what I’ve read on the Internet.”
    “First tell me what you’re going to have,” he said urgently.
    “I’m going to have the…” I glanced at the menu. “The veal, I think.”
    “Oh, no,” he said. He inhaled, stretched his lips in pain, and shook his head. “You really don’t want the veal.”
    “No?”
    “Anything but the veal.”
    “Well, what do you recommend?”
    “Really, anything else.”
    “Shrimp scamp—” I looked at him. He shook his head slowly. I closed the menu and placed it on the table. “What are you having?”
    “I was thinking about having steak. We could get it for two? Any way you like, though medium rare is how I like it.”
    “That sounds lovely. Whatever you say. I’m easy.” And then I laughed. I raised my eyebrows at him. I don’t know why I did that. I didn’t want to flirt with him, that much I knew.
    He looked down, flushed. “Oh, I’m sure you’re not easy. I’m sure you’re quite the lady.”
    “I am, I am. I’m sorry I even said that. Anyway, tell me about you.” I smiled my sweetest, most gentle smile, the one I give to small children, the elderly, and uneasy suitors. “You write children’s books. That must be so rewarding.”
    “Oh, yes, I love children. I want to have at least three of them. Do you want to have children?”
    “I’m undecided.” This was true, though I knew it would discourage him. On the one hand, I would love to have children. On the other hand, then I would
have
children. That part I wasn’t so sure about.
    “You look like you’d be a great mother. You’ve got the perfect figure for childbirth, too.”
    I was certain this was a compliment, though it didn’t feel like one.
    “God, I’m such an ass,” he said. “I didn’t say that right at all.” He flushed, then coughed. Slapped a hand to his face, then ducked down.
    I wanted to reach out to him, pull his hand away from his face and pat it, calm him down. There’s too much agitation over words in our lives. It seems ridiculous at times. I know my own words tumble out sometimes like ill-behaved children rolling down a hill after church while wearing their Sunday finery. Messy, messy words.
    But then he added, “I do think you should at least consider it. Children.”
    This must be the comedy-writer part of him coming out, I thought. This must be a big joke. I laughed to test my theory. He looked disappointed. Oh, dear. He really