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: : : ON THEIR THIRD DATE, SHE barely hears anything he says. He's talking about work shit: so-and-so is an incompetent, such-and-such a department is behind on their work, that kind of thing. The kind of thing that she can tune out entirely as long as she can remember to make a sympathetic face on her cue.
It's not that she's not paying attention to him, exactly. In fact the reason she's can't really take in what he's saying is because she's watching him so closely. She's downright inspecting him—making observations on the way he hails the waiter, the way he blots his mouth with his napkin, the amount of time he spends watching for her reaction before he begins to speak again. She's looking for something that will let her know why she's here, on this date, at all. Some positive sign, some gesture revealing inner grace or beauty. Fuck, at this point, even a negative sign would do. She's half-ready to get down on her knees and pray to God for a deal-breaker, some moment where she could catch Julius surreptitiously attempting to pick his nose with his thumb, or admiring himself overweeningly in the mirrored wall, anything, anything that would give her some excuse to stop seeing him, anything that would give her an answer to offer when someone (Anita) asks why.
She imagines herself saying it just didn't feel right, imagines the skeptical face Anita would make in response. You have to get over this whole idea that there's some Prince Charming out there just waiting for you, says the imaginary Anita. Princes aren't found, they're made. You gotta train your man, just like any other dumb animal.
Lydia tries to think about how she might begin the process of training Julius but the whole idea just makes her feel tired. She refills her glass of wine.
After dinner they're standing out on the curb. A chilly wind has begun to kick up; Lydia pulls her scarf up over her mouth and balls her hands into fists inside her pockets.
—Um, Julius says, —do you think you might want to come back to my place for a while?
Lydia thinks about it. She knows that she could just go home, sit in front of the TV and masturbate, spend the night in her own bed. But the thought of her apartment, where there are a week's worth of dirty dishes accumulated on the kitchen counter, where she'll have to be subjected to the sounds of techno music seeping through the ineffective muffle of her bedroom wall until one or two am—the thought of going there makes her feel, somehow, like she's drowning.
—Sure, she says, and he hails a cab, and they get into it, and she watches out the window, as the lit signs of the city careen past. She stares at them until they seem to have no meaning at all.
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