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My mind whirls into places it shouldn’t while my fork hovers an inch from my lips. “No. I don’t think I will.”
His sigh pours into my skull, surround sound. Moments pass, then a vaguely disappointed noise follows. “I just looked up how do I bully my girlfriend, and I have been given a help line.”
“Yeah, the algorithm sucks. Always trying to get people to go to therapy for some reason. It’s a real scam.” For the second time in the same exact hour, I discover that I am smiling. “I’d tell you what to actually look up in order to get the results you need, but I don’t think you can handle the language.”
He exhales a laugh. “You are sincerely baffling, Marcella. May I take you out tomorrow, on a date?”
My smile slips away. “I mean, I was planning to stare at the ceiling for prolonged lengths of time and refuse to get up until my bladder filed a formal complaint, but…”
“I guess you’re still sleeping on the couch, huh?”
I bristle. “What gives you that idea?”
“The bed in the room you chose has a canopy. No ceiling to stare at without getting up. And you, my dear, take things too literally to have ignored that detail.”
My gaze slips skyward, toward the thick fabric of the canopy. Choosing to ignore his entirely correct assessment, I mutter, “What do you want to do?”
“It’s September,” he says.
I wait.
Nothing more illuminates this obvious fact. It has been September for over a week, which means I should be debt-free right now. Unfortunately, the stupid loan company had me make an appointment for the end of September to see one of their representatives, so I am not. I murmur, “Yes…and?”
“Let’s go to a pumpkin patch.”
“What?”
“We can pick out pumpkins, then carve them, while drinking apt beverages.”
My eyes narrow on the stupid canopy. I echo, “Apt beverages?”
“Pumpkin spice. Hot chocolate. Apple cider.”
“Alcoholic?”
“Pardon?”
“Alcoholic cider? A little bourbon in that pumpkin stuff, perhaps? You know, there’s a recipe for spiked hot chocolate I’ve wanted to try.” I finish my fish. This disturbs me greatly. I wonder if there’s more in the kitchen…
“Marcella…” F-man hesitates. “Do you have a problem we need to talk about?”
My brow rises. How does he know I just ran out of fish? Are there cameras in here? “What do you mean?”
“Things went somewhat oddly for you the last time I know you imbibed alcohol. It seems unusual that you’d want to prompt any similar situations. Especially in my direct presence. Unless you have a problem.”
I know this man isn’t suggesting I’m an alcoholic. “I’ve not drunk since my birthday, and before that, New Years. My only problem is that it sounds like you want me to go to a pumpkin patch, haul a giant orange thing home, then carve out its guts. I don’t know how you expect me to do any of that without some sort of substance assist.” I huff as my green beans also disappear. “Would it kill you to be a little less wholesome now and again? The proper response to my query is suggesting a drinking game where we take shots every time we see a pumpkin.”
“We are going to see hundreds of pumpkins. We would die.”
“Now who has the lousy sense of humor?” I mutter.
“Is there something else you’d like to do that won’t have you resorting to alcohol?” he asks.
Shock therapy comes to mind. I don’t say that though. “Pick me up at noon. Take me to get breakfast—”
“Breakfast? At noon?”
“I don’t remember commissioning your opinion on the matter.”
