Page 2 of The Cyrano Situation
I checked my watch again as we waited. 7:49. I would definitely be late now.
"So," Hart said, leaning against the counter. "How's your love life?"
I nearly choked on air. "I beg your pardon?"
"Your love life. Dating. Romance. The horizontal tango." Hart wiggled his eyebrows in a way I found both childish and alarmingly endearing.
"That is absolutely none of your business."
"So, nonexistent then."
The barista called our names, saving me from having to respond. I took my coffee and moved toward the door with purpose.
"Wait, wait," Hart called, grabbing his elaborate beverage and pastry bag. "I didn't mean to offend. I just thought, you know, you might want to get out there."
"Get out where, exactly?" I pushed through the door, back into the morning air.
"The dating scene." Hart fell into step beside me again. "You're smart, you've got that whole professorial vibe going, and you're not bad looking. You should be on the apps."
I nearly stopped walking. "Apps? As in dating applications? Absolutely not."
"Why not?"
"Because I have no interest in creating a digital advertisement for myself to be swiped upon like a piece of meat at a deli counter."
Hart laughed, a rich sound that turned heads on the sidewalk. "That's one way to look at it. But it's also a way to meet people you wouldn't normally encounter in your—" he gestured vaguely at me, "—carefully controlled universe."
We had reached the building, and I stopped at the entrance, checking my watch. 7:56. If I hurried, I might still make it to my office by 8:00.
"Hart, I appreciate your concern, misplaced though it may be. But I am perfectly content with my life as it is. I don't need dating apps or lavender lattes or any other disruptions to my routine."
Hart studied me over the rim of his coffee cup, his expression unreadable for once. "Contentment isn't the same as happiness, Cyril."
"Perhaps not for you." I pushed through the revolving door, leaving Hart and his philosophical musings on the sidewalk.
I made it to my office at 8:02, two minutes behind schedule. A small disruption in the grand scheme of things, but it set the tone for the day. I spent the morning reviewing manuscripts, making notes in the margins with my red pen (never blue, never pencil), and trying not to think about Hart's comment.
Contentment isn't the same as happiness.
What did he know about it? Hart lived in a perpetual state of enthusiasm that I found exhausting just to witness. Of course he couldn't understand the satisfaction of a well-ordered life, the comfort of routine, the peace that comes from knowing exactly what to expect.
At precisely 12:30, I unwrapped the sandwich I'd brought from home (turkey on whole grain, lettuce, a thin spread of mustard) and opened my e-reader to continue the novel I'd been working through—a Japanese mystery that had been receiving significant critical attention.
I was three bites into my sandwich when my office door swung open without a knock.
"I've been thinking," Hart announced, dropping into the chair across from my desk. He had a takeout container that smelled strongly of curry.
"A dangerous pastime," I murmured, carefully marking my place in the book.
"About what you said this morning. About not wanting to be swiped on like deli meat." He opened his container, releasing a cloud of aromatic steam. "And you're right. Those apps can be dehumanizing."
"I'm glad we agree." I took another bite of my sandwich, hoping this would be the end of the conversation.
"But," Hart continued, gesturing with his fork, "that doesn't mean you should give up on finding someone. You just need a different approach."
I sighed. "Hart, I appreciate your concern, but—"
"What if I helped you?"
