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I like it; it makes him hard to figure out. He's removed his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of remarks his white shirt, loosened the collar, draped his tie over his chair. "Get a burger." "I don't eat red meat." He's offhand, as if the information's remarks inconsequential. "Well, you've come to the wrong place." I laugh, folding a checkered napkin into a neat pattern. remarks He lets his eyes meet mine, then chuckles and looks back down at the menu. "You must have something." The night closing waitress arrives, interrupting our triumphant love scene. She goes through the menu with pointy red fingernails, discussing each dish with gusto, as if this was a real restaurant worth talking about. "So, you work here?" he says when she's gone. "No, I just think this shirt looks good on me. And I enjoy folding napkins. It's kind of a hobby." So is fucking cute strangers.
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