Page 38 of The Goat in the Bedroom
Before I could respond, someone cleared their throat behind me. I turned to find myself looking down, way down, at a man who barely came up to my chest. He stepped around me and held his hand out to Artie.
“You must be Artemis.” Rob's voice was warm and confident, completely unfazed by the fact that he had to tilt his head back to make eye contact. “Wow, Sean completely undersold how beautiful you are.”
Artie's face went through about six different expressions as she looked down at him, her body automatically bending at an awkward angle like she was trying to figure out the logistics of... existing near him. She extended her hand for a shake, then seemed to second-guess it, pulled back, started to lean down for a hug, aborted that mission, and ended up doing an odd curtsy-bow hybrid that made Rob grin.
“I'm... yes. Hi. You're... compact,” she blurted out, then immediately turned red. “I mean, Sean mentioned you were... I just meant...”
“That I'm short?” Rob laughed, easy and genuine. “Five four on a good day. Five six if I spike my hair, which my ex said made me look like an anime character, so I stopped doing that.”
Fuck. Sean was right. Rob was sweet, funny, confident, and good-looking, and Artie was going to fall in love with him tonight.
Before Artie could respond, a tall whirlwind of energy bounded up to our group.
“Oh my god, you're even taller me. This is uh-mazing.”
I looked over to find possibly the most willowy adult man I'd ever seen beaming at me. He couldn't have been bigger around than my pinky, with platinum blond hair in a short spiky cut that matched his personality perfectly.
“I'm Puck.” He actually bounced on his toes. “This is so cool. I've never dated someone I could actually climb like a tree.”
The hostess, who'd been watching our group with increasing concern, cleared her throat. “Right this way to your table.”
She led us to a booth that was clearly designed by someone who'd never actually eaten food before. The table was fixed inplace, at a height that would hit both Artie and me somewhere around our sternums if we managed to squeeze into the seats.
“Here you are,” the hostess chirped.
We all stared at the booth. Rob tilted his head, assessing it like a stunt he was planning. Puck was probably the only one who could fit at the table at all. Artie was doing that thing where she tried to make herself smaller, shoulders hunching in.
“Actually,” the hostess said, apparently realizing the geometric impossibility of fitting us into the space, “let me show you to our bar seating. Much, uh, better lighting for your camera crew.”
The bar seating turned out to be backless stools that looked like they were made from repurposed bicycle seats, positioned at a counter that would have both Rob swinging his legs like a child, and have me and Artie dying about three minutes in from having the sides of the metal seats digging into our larger-than-those-seats asses. I couldn't subject her to that.
“Those are a Larry, Curly, and Mo style accident waiting to happen,” I said, louder than necessary. Several nearby diners looked over. “Look, I'm six four and built like a truck. Those things are going to snap the second I sit down, and then you'll have a viral video of League Player Destroys Pretentious Restaurant on your hands.”
The manager materialized instantly, probably sensing the bad publicity.
Rob stepped forward smoothly. “We're going to need your VIP booth, the one you keep for celebrities who actually want to eat their food.”
“I... we don't...”
“The one in the back corner,” Rob continued pleasantly. “With the adjustable table and real chairs. The one you gave to that action star Fox Daws last week. It looked great in his InstaSnap post.”
The manager's face went through a journey. “Right this way.”
The VIP booth was like finding an oasis in a desert of aesthetic discomfort. Real chairs with backs and cushions. A table at actual table height. Space to exist as humans with bones and muscles and the need for back support.
“Thank god,” Artie breathed, then caught herself. “I mean, this is lovely.”
We settled in, and immediately the careful choreography of a first date began. Artie reached for the wine list at the exact moment Rob did. They had a brief tug-of-war that ended with the list tearing slightly down the middle.
“I'll order for us,” Artie announced, at the same time Rob said, “What does everyone like?”
They stared at each other. Rob gently extracted the torn wine list from Artie's grip.
“How about,” he said easily, “we each pick something? Make it more fun?”
“Fun. Yes. I love fun.” Artie grabbed the appetizer menu with both hands while trying not to look directly into the cameras quietly documenting this bizarre mating ritual. “I'll order some starters for us.”
She proceeded to order what appeared to be one of everything she thought sounded sophisticated, including something called “deconstructed Caesar salad” that turned out to be a whole head of romaine lettuce with a raw egg on top.
