I told the hostess to send the person looking for the blind date to the secluded booth at the back of the bar. Nice booth, I thought as I took a seat. It’s even got a velvet curtain to close in case I want to get cozy or if I don’t want to be seen with some troll.
Then unfortunately, I started giving myself a mental ass-kicking. Wes, you dumb fuck, here it is Valentine’s Day and the best you can do is get fixed up with some agent named Evilette. With that name she’s probably got a tongue that cuts like a razor and burns like acid. I’ll bet she looks like some ancient librarian not allowed out of the stacks. And WTF were you thinking by shelling out a hundred bucks for roses and another fifty for chocolates?
Time passed slowly, my date hadn’t shown yet, and my pre-party martini had stretched to three. The self-loathing continued. OK, Wes, why the hell are you here? Are you afraid of spending this day of love alone? Do you want to get in her knickers? Or do you want to pitch that stupid book of yours to her? Be honest, you loser. It’s the book, isn’t it? You blew all that money, plus who knows how much more just to closet some agent. Admit it! Well, if that’s the case, you deserve what you get.
I heard the thick curtain rustle and saw a hairy hand pull it back. A face with wire rim glasses and muttonchop sideburns peered in. “There must be some mistake,” the man said. “I was expecting my date.”
“I would say so,” I retorted indignantly. “My date is an agent.”
“I’m an editor.”
“Really? Have a seat and let me tell you about my book.”