His third espresso martini had just arrived. Maybe that should’ve been my sign. He waited for the waiter to leave, the way men often check to see that the coast is clear before saying something brave or brazen, or just outright brutal. His eyes landed on my ears. Right: a safety pin. Left: a green enamel heart. A completely incongruous pair I’d bought myself in a rare fit of solvency, full price no less (ily Last Line). He tilted his head, bemused, the way a Mayflower mom might, to examine her future daughter-in-law’s hidden-but-not-so-hidden wrist tattoo peeking out from her watch band.
“Shame,” he said. “You’d look great in pearls.”
He thought he was being helpful, which was the problem. Somewhere between the liquid courage and the votive candles, this guy who had known me for a total of 5 hours over the course of 2 dates had conducted a full-blown search of my person, found contraband, and suggested replacing it with something that would clear the bar. I …
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