Well, it almost went swimmingly. Claire set up the blind date at Mon Cher last Saturday. I wore that light blue chiffon dress from our shopping trip last summer—remember?—and things were going so well. Fabulous carrot soup, romantic candlelight, good rapport. I was looking forward to some French dessert, maybe chocolate mousse.
My only regret is that I misplaced Jim’s number afterwards, what with the fire and everyone in the restaurant scrambling for the exit. It was like a herd of well-dressed elephants making a collective break for freedom—an overreaction, honestly, because it really was quite a small fire—and when I got confused and stood up, I was promptly trampled by a severe-looking woman in four-inch heels. Jim waited with me for the ambulance outside (doctor says the cast should be off in no time).
It was unfortunate. Jim’s in the accounting business, with good prospects. Two cats, no kids. Crooked teeth but sweet smile. I thought the ice had been well and truly broken by the time we started the main course, but Jim must have been a little nervous, because the instant he saw my sleeve smoking over the candles—who knew chiffon was so flammable?—he leapt up, emptied a pitcher of water over me, then somewhat belatedly screamed “Fire!” loudly enough to wake the dead three provinces away. Hence the well-dressed elephants.
My dress is only a little charred, if very wet. I wish Jim would call.
I still want my dessert.