CANDLES LIT EACH TABLE, casting shadows upon the diners. Most of the bar-goers had the look of mimes whose shift had just ended, having enough time to ditch the makeup, but not the outfits.
Rich used too much hair gel, and constantly swept it with his hand, so the swish of his hair went one way, then another, back and forth, always alternating, like watching a stop-go construction sign.
He’d ordered a burger with ramen noodles on it; she’d ordered the pad thai. She was drinking whiskey, a little pool of it still sitting in her glass. The framed pictures behind his head were silhouetted, blank faces, windy looking landscapes—also a gas mask, looking very 1917. Not exactly a lively decor.
This was it, the blind date. If that’s what they were even called anymore. It took all of Vicki’s willpower not to turn over the table and go screaming into the night, so instead she sipped her whiskey.