JOSH STARES DOWN AT HIS wineglass, which has a fingerprint smudge on the base of the stem that he desperately wants to wipe off. It’s a respite from making prolonged eye contact with Maddie, a self-professed “food influencer, but not obnoxious about it” who’s monologuing about the YouTube chefs she finds “most fuckable.”
His mind wanders, cataloguing the Smith’s décor clichés—Edison bulbs, wood paneled ceilings, subway tile walls. It’s a copy of a copy of a New York bistro. Of course this fucking chain thrives, while his thoughtful, unique venture went down in flames.
Thur, Dec 15, 8:23 p.m.
Ari: sup
i’m playing beer bong w/ gabe in hell’s kitchen and I’m bored
where are you
Josh: I’m on a date.
The Smith on 63rd.
Ari: ooh nearby…
Josh: 27,000 restaurants in this city and a “foodie” chooses the Smith?
Ari: glad youre not being judgmental this time
“It’s so ironic,” Maddie says—and Josh is sure whatever she says next is guaranteed not to be ironic, “because I think I had a little crush on you, but I actually only gave The Brod two stars?”
Josh: Actually, call me and pretend it’s an emergency.
Ari: Why??
Wait
actually I’ll do you one better
He reaches for his knife and fork, half-listening to Maddie’s monologue about her ex-boyfriend, who never supported her food blogging and who she’s “totally over.” Luckily the acoustics are so bad that his date’s voice fades into the general cacophony of the restaurant. The couple at the next table appear to be having a lovely dinner, with no need to feign interest in the other’s early-stage dating anecdotes.
Had it felt that effortless with Sophie? Or was he a nervous-fucking-wreck the entire time?
Josh surreptitiously checks his watch under the table as their entrées arrive: his steak and Maddie’s salad with five substitutions. She photographs the unremarkable dish. Fifteen minutes have passed and no emergency call. Had Ari gotten distracted? Forgot? Gone home with her beer pong opponents?
Maddie glances up at something over his shoulder: a sharp, insistent tapping sound coming from the window behind him.
Josh turns around, expecting to see some bizarre only–in–New York event unfolding in front of a crowd along Broadway. But there’s only one person standing there, an inch from the window, her face contorted in outrage.
“What the fuck, Joshua?” Ari yells into the insulated glass, creating a cloud of condensation on the window. Josh freezes, racking his brain for an explanation.
“Do you know her?” Maddie asks, sitting up straighter.
Before he can say anything, a blur of plaid peacoat appears at the periphery of his vision.
“I knew it!” Ari bursts through the door and past the host stand. “Liar!”
It takes her only a few seconds to march past five other tables and plant herself in front of their crowded two-top. He slouches automatically but there’s nowhere to hide.
“?‘Working late’?” Her eyes are glassy from beer pong. “It’s bullshit! You’re cheating on me!”
“I—” His mouth won’t close. He blinks and lets the dual feelings of shock and confusion fight for dominance.
Ari slams her open hand down on the shiny wood tabletop. The couple at the next table pretend not to stare. “And at our favorite restaurant!”
“Our fav—” He clenches his jaw, tamping down whatever emotion is fighting to make itself known. He’s either on the verge of laughter or genuinely scared of her.
“Wait,” Maddie says. “You have a girlfriend?”
He’s about to offer…well, something in the realm of a denial when Ari leans down so that her face is only a few inches from his.
“I’m his wife.”
His date jerks her head back, like she’s been hit by a particularly vicious dodgeball headshot.
Josh isn’t often rendered speechless but something short-circuits between his brain and his throat when Ari looks down at him, her expression fiery anger, cut with a dash of mischief that almost no one else would notice.
“M-Maddie, it’s not—” He exhales. “This isn’t real.”
“Not real?” Ari shakes her head slowly. “Not real?” Josh reaches for his water and takes a gulp. “It felt pretty real when I got my nipples pierced because you said it was ‘more intimate than a wedding ring.’ They took an entire month to heal!”
Maddie’s mouth falls open. Josh coughs up some of the water.
Dropping her tote bag on the floor, Ari takes a seat on the banquette, trapping him. The side of his body is pushed up against the cold poly wool blend of her unbuttoned coat, which absorbed the aroma of cheap beer.
“You’re married?” Maddie asks, leaning forward.
Ari looks at him, eyebrows raised to cartoonish heights, daring him to join the act.
Josh does some quick calculus. He’s never been good at improvising, but Ari hasn’t given him much choice.
“I guess we’ve been”—he breathes in, scanning Ari’s face—“avoiding the truth for a long time. Going through the motions.”
Maddie lets out a little gasp. She should be reaching for her coat any moment.
The tiny divot at the corner of Ari’s mouth turns up ever so slightly. “So all that phone sex was just your way of ‘going through the motions’?” His neck gets hot. She glances at Maddie. “He makes crazy noises, you know.” She leans across the table. “One time, he wanted me to wear a clown suit.”
“Jesus, this is so toxic,” Maddie mutters, pushing the bread basket toward Ari.
Ari’s slightly inebriated affect really helps to sell the idea that she’d downed three glasses of pinot noir back in “their” apartment before marching over to Sixty-third and Broadway to confront her lying husband.
“When we met,” Ari says, grabbing two slices of focaccia, “it was like he couldn’t get enough of me. He gave me a drawer after our second night together.”
“Such a red flag.” Maddie nods, making absolutely no move to leave. “But also romantic?”
Ari faces him. “You told me you loved me and you didn’t care that it was too soon. And it scared me because I never said that to anyone before.” She places her palm against his cheek and he’s certain she can feel his racing pulse through his skin. “But I did. I said it because I felt…” There’s a tiny wobble in her voice. “I thought we belonged to each other. I let you in. I let my guard down. I used the drawer and you just got…tired of me.”
Josh swallows. If this monologue is pure invention, she really does have great improv skills.
“What a fucking asshole,” Maddie says, heartbroken by proxy. “I’m so sorry.”
The two women stare accusingly at Josh and he feels momentarily guilty for fake-perpetuating an entirely fictional crime of the heart.
Ari slides her right hand in front of him and reaches for his plate, quietly slicing into his steak. After she ingests half his meal, finishes his wine, and signals the server for another, Ari turns to the bewildered woman across the table. “I’m sorry, what was your name?”
“It’s Maddie,” she says, apparently surprised to become a direct participant in the drama. “Hi. But I’m not—” She pauses. “This was our first date.”
Ari whips her head back to him. “How many women did you neglect to tell me about, Joshua?”
“Aren’t you even going to say you’re sorry?” Maddie asks him, shaking her head in disbelief.
Great. So, he’s capable of disappointing people in made-up scenarios in addition to the real world.
Ari slices off one more bite of his steak. “This is really good,” she mumbles, somehow acting convincingly distraught while thoroughly enjoying his food.
Josh and Ari stare at each other for a beat. The blaring noise of the restaurant—the laughter at the bar, the clinking of silverware, Le Tigre pumping through the speakers—recedes into the background.