Working It Read Free

languages.” Apparently, he developed some unusual software program and is now Zuckerberg rich. He didn’t tell me that last part. I Googled him.
    “Waiting for someone?” the bartender asks.
    “A date.” Nerves tickle my belly. “First date.”
    “Nice.”
    “I met him online.”
    He whistles. “Hope you don’t get catfished.”
    I don’t watch a lot of television, but I get the reference. “Me too.”
    The bartender smiles and moves down the bar to greet a new wave of customers.
    Honestly? I’ve been so wrapped up in the fall-out of the Kitty Kat Purrfect debacle, I haven’t considered the possibility that Morph2Perfection might have lied on his dating profile. I am not a religious person, but I suddenly feel the need to pray.
    Please, Higher Power and Goddess of First Dates, please don’t let Ethan be a catfish. Please no finger-sniffing, overweight, balding, middle-aged men.
    I finish my wine and order another glass.
    Nothing wrong with courage by Cabernet, is there?
    We agreed to meet at seven o’clock. Ethan walks in the door at six fifty-nine.
    Punctual. Score one for Ethan.
    He looks just like his profile photo—tall, lean, with sandy brown hair that points in all directions, like he just ran his hand through it. He’s cute, in a slightly disheveled absent-minded professor kind of way. He doesn’t hesitate in the doorway but walks right over to me.
    Confident. I like that. Score another point.
    “Stéphanie?”
    “Ethan?”
    “ Enchanté , Mademoiselle Moreau,” he says, grabbing my hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it. “You’re even more beautiful in person than you are on your profile photo. How is that possible?”
    Perfect French accent and charming compliment. Score two more points for Ethan.
    “ Merci .”
    “Shall we move to a table?”
    I pick up my glass and follow him to a small table situated in a partially-curtained alcove. He doesn’t pull out my chair.
    Minus one for Ethan. Fortunately, he’s still up three points.
    We spend the next fifteen minutes making polite chitchat. I use a trick I learned from watching Vivian in action and ask him an open-ended question about his job. People love talking about themselves, even on awkward first dates. Ethan is not the exception. Using technical programming jargon, he tells me about an exciting new program he’s developing for a government contractor that will revolutionize battlefield tactics.
    “That sounds exciting. You’re a regular Q.”
    He stares at me. “Q?”
    “James Bond.” I smile. The head of research and development for MI-5.”
    How can a geek not know that?
    “Ah.” He leans back in his chair. “Except Q was an industrial scientist who developed hardware that could be used in the field, and I am a computer engineer who develops software. Not quite the same, technically speaking.”
    “Right.”
    An awkward silence stretches between us. Is he always a stickler for precise language?
    “So you work in a clothing store?”
    “Not exactly. I work for L’Heure.”
    “Isn’t that a clothing store?”
    “Boutique. Yes, but the phrase ‘work in a clothing store’ implies a sales position. I am a regional manager, responsible for several boutiques.” I grin. “Not quite the same, technically speaking.”
    He continues to stare at me, and a wicked little voice in my head whispers, Does not compute. My playful jab simply does not register.
    Sorry, Ethan. Half a point docked for inability to detect sarcasm. I am French. Sarcasm is an inherited trait. It’s in our DNA.
    “So,” I say, changing the subject, “how long did you live in Paris?”
    “Twelve weeks and two days.”
    “That’s all?”
    “I attended a language immersion course.”
    Three months? A three month language immersion course hardly qualifies. Minus two, Ethan.
    If I can’t date a Frenchman, I at least want to date someone with an understanding and appreciation of my culture. Acid churns in my belly. Clearly, disappointment and wine