Page 29 of Burn the Script

“…which makes perfect sense. The Metamorphosis isn’t only about sexual repression. Kafka alludes to the more nuanced desires related to sex, including the taboo.”

My fingertips rap against the tablecloth as I glare at the forty-year-old with a blond crew cut and tweed coat. “So...kinks?”

He adjusts his wire glasses. On him, they look as out of place as the soul patch on his chin. I’m not convinced he’s a professor at all.

“If we’re using simplistic vocabulary, yes,” he says.

What a condescending prick.

Sighing, I fold the napkin draped over my lap. The Italian bistro’s atmosphere seemed promising in the online reviews, but the poor company I’m keeping has ruined the vibe. “Look, Bradley.”

“Bennett.”

“Whatever. When I read a book, I go for thrillers or suspense. I’m pretty smart and can usually solve the whodunnit in the first act.” I set the napkin on my empty plate and twirl a finger in the air. “This long, roundabout way of telling me you’re looking to get laid but have nuanced tastes? I clocked your game the second you brought Franz into the conversation. And I’ll tell you now, you’re barking up the wrong tree. Save yourself fifty bucks, and let’s end the evening while we’re ahead.”

He turns his nose up and sneers. “There’s no reason to be rude.”

Pulling out my wallet, I lay down a twenty to cover my half of the appetizer he ordered, plus tip. “If you think honesty and directness are unacceptable qualities, that’s a you problem. Good luck to you and Kafka.”

I’ve never fled a restaurant so fast in my life. My hands are shaking, a side effect of standing up for myself, as I speed-walk the one block to my favorite fabric store. If the professor had been direct about his intentions, I wouldn’t have met with him.

Maybe I’m the naive one who can’t read between the lines. I need an expert to guide me through the process of using dating apps. Someone to teach me how to spot the clues and translate the shorthand before swiping right or left or whichever fucking direction means I’m down for a coffee, a croissant, and that’s all.

The bell chimes when I walk into Linens & Lace and take a deep breath, inhaling the starchy scent of new fabric. Ms. Darcy, the owner, looks up from the cutting table. She’s a spry woman in her seventies with wrinkly skin and solid white hair tied in a low bun. Her eyes light up behind thick lenses and large frames competing with her smile.

“Miguel! This is a pleasant surprise. What brings you in on a Saturday?” she asks.

“Only you, Ms. Darcy. I can’t stay away from such a pretty sight.”

She waves the shears in her hand. “Oh, hush. I’m too old and wise to fall for your charms.”

“You’re the only person who thinks I’m charming. Five minutes ago, someone called me rude.”

“Nonsense. Have a seat and tell me why you’re here. You raided my new stock three days ago, so I know you didn’t come to buy anything.”

Using the long ruler as a guide, she resumes her cutting. I’ve been shopping at Linens & Lace for years, and Ms. Darcy has learned to read my moods. Since she prefers the closing shift, I often pop in after work when there are fewer customers and we have time to chat.

I plant my butt on a round stool and swivel from side to side, eyeing a jar of tiny seashells. I’m also curious about the three bolts of velvet and what’s in store for the vivid colors.

“I walked out on a date before the waiter brought the appetizer,” I say.

She pats my arm. “Good for you. If something doesn’t feel right, never doubt yourself. Trust your instincts when they tell you to haul ass.”

I chuckle, sliding a scrap of purple velvet between my fingers. “I’ve been questioning my instincts for a while. They can’t be trusted anymore.”

“Your instincts are fine, dear. Your broken heart is the problem.”

“My heart definitely can’t be trusted.” Ditching the fabric scrap, I pick up the jar of shells and turn it in my hand. “What are these for?”

Her shears slice through the fabric she’s cutting with ease. “Embellishments. If I’m forcing these tired bones to walk the beaches with my group every Friday, I might as well make some money doing it.”

“Genius.”

“It takes a while, but we all get there.” She folds the yardage and adds it to a bag with a hold tag stapled to the front. “I haven’t had dinner, and from the sound of it, neither have you. Help me close up, and we’ll go for soup and salad around the corner. Soup makes everything better.”

A quick peek at my phone confirms it’s seven o’clock and she’s not trying to close early on account of me. “Sounds like the perfect date.”

Standing in the entryway of my apartment, I groan. The lights are on, and my bedroom door is cracked. I’m certain I closed it before leaving for my disastrous date. As I hang my jacket and toe off my shoes, I reach the only logical conclusion. Cyclone Carmen has blown through my living quarters.