GLAMOROUS [80’s Remix]

          Blind dates weren’t really her cup of tea most of the time. Sometimes if she felt daring, she’d agree to them, but often times she doubted anyone outside of herself knew what she liked when it came to dates. Hell, there were sometimes where even Faye Brookes herself didn’t know what was her type so to speak. Cute and funny were a given. The ability to handle their liquor was a definite plus. But often it varied to an alarming degree where even she couldn’t pinpoint it exactly. Which made those profiles on dating apps a complete nightmare and often a waste of time. She was much more hit on someone at a bar and get naked later type of person, but, she was feeling adventurous when someone at her new job mentioned Anthony Addens and the onslaught of her position of personal assistant to the most blowhard of blowhards whom she mentally referred to as Dirty Harry brought on a lot of stress. 

          So what better way to release that stress than go out with a cute boy? 

          And he was cute. Laid back and fun, even. He seemed a bit nervous but trying hard not to show it and she thought it only right not to call attention to it. Licking her lips as he spoke, she couldn’t help but let out a grin. “Not even past the first date and you’re askin’ for ‘nother one? That’s bold. You must really like me then, aye?” Her accent a bit thicker than usual, probably because of the whisky she had no trouble pushing back. It was a light tease, hazel eyes lighting up at the prospect. She didn’t do blind dates often, but this was…kinda nice. For as much as she teased about the eagerness, she really didn’t mind. “I like bold moves, though. A lot of these things I’m always the one to make the first move so to speak. Otherwise I’m playin’ the phone dance where I never get a text or call and never see the person again. Or I do, with another date, which is all kinds of awkward.” Which was such a turn off on these things.

          “It’s refreshin’. I admire it. So, yes, I’d like that. I should be off this weekend, maybe more Saturday than anythin’, my boss likes to call me in for overtime for some emergency he supposedly has.” Something she was learning all too quickly. “Tell me more ‘bout these paint and sip nights? I’ve never been, but I like to try new things.”

He huffs out a laugh, almost chokes on it as the sound startles out of him. It’s an exhale more than anything—not the short, abrasive, bleat of laughter he’s prone to, thank God. Seconds ago he was gearing up to stutter out an excuse, or an apology, whichever came out first (That’s bold. Well, yes, you’re right, I will now be retracting that entire statement, I’m so sorry—), and now he’s trying to cope with the reality of her actually saying yes. Because as much merit as he gives paint and sip nights and positive affirmations, he didn’t expect any of this to actually end in a second date. Sure, the affirmations are affirming, and he’s got a wealth of confidence besides that, but he’s also got his own history of dates that tend to fall on a scale of Unremarkable to Fantastically Bad.

This, to say the least, is an outlier.

       “Yeah, yes, definitely.” He punctuates each word with a nod. “That’s— definitely awkward.” He cracks a smile, something sheepish and small but steady as his nerves begin to ease. Hearing the words refreshin’ and admire, however, has his positive affirmations of FUN FLIRTY CONFIDENT devolving into an unreassuring stream of cool, cool, cool. Hopefully when their second date rolls around, that pseudo-confidence will actually last.  “But cool. Cool. Saturday is cool.” Super cool. Very cool. Cool, cool, cool. “I’ll um, I’ll text you, and you can let me know whenever you’re free.” His smile stretches a little wider, quirking with the hint of another laugh. And the whole maintaining eye contact ordeal gets a little easier as the conversation shifts to something he knows better than the back of his hand.

       “Paint and sips are kinda like a painting class? Except there’s wine? Very much a hit with the mom crowd, but fun enough for non-moms, too. Everybody paints the same thing, there’s a teacher. They only give you one glass of wine though, which is bogus—” emphasis on the bogus, eyebrows raised and all— “but it’s pretty easy to sneak yourself another glass if you know where they stash the bottles. All in all, a good time.” Of course, that's coming from a guy who’s visited two of these things in the past month, completely of his own volition.

     “Okay, feel free to tell me if I’m wrong—” his eyes dart up from the user manual long enough to tilt his head and level a look that conveys just how much he thinks that’s a possibility (little to nonexistent), “but this is the best thing to ever happen to this place.” 

He’s already heard the chorus of No’s and Get that thing out of here’s from his coworkers. The second his fellow arcade employees saw him wheeling in the Simply-A-Blast Heavy Duty Snow Cone Machine (as proclaimed by the print on the box), he’s been alone in his positive thinking. Sure, shaved ice and syrups might be terrifying when combined with preteens and arcade machines, but Tony firmly believes the pros outweigh the cons here. Now during his breaks, he can have a cherry and blue raspberry snow cone. Big pro, if you asked him.

He just has to get this thing running, and soon he’ll be living the dream. Which may take some time considering it’s a lone endeavor. Nobody else is willing to set up the machine that may very likely result in extra cleaning and increased game malfunctions, leaving him behind the snack counter, alone, flipping through the user manual with too many similar looking diagrams.

Anthony Addens does not get nervous. He does not get tongue-tied, he does not get bashful, he doesn’t do any of that hand-wringing, lip-worrying bullshit. That’s just not him. That’s not the energy he’s trying to put into the universe. Anthony Addens makes eye contact with strangers and strikes power poses mid-presentation. He’s as confident as any Central Californian can be. So even though his eye contact may be fidgety at best right now, rest assured that there is nothing but a steady stream of positive affirmations (FUN FLIRTY CONFIDENT—YOU GOT THIS!) running through his mind at this exact moment.

And if his palms are a little clammy, well, that’s nobody’s business but his own.

     "So like,” good start, strong start— “I was wondering if... y’know, if you’re free, maybe we couuuuuuld go on a date, or something. This weekend. Get to know each other better, on our own terms.” Not that their blind date wasn’t nice, but it was sudden. Nerve-racking. Not knowing who you’re going to dinner with is intimidating, he’s learned. Or maybe that’s just him in any vaguely romantic situation. He wouldn’t know. His dating experience is wanting to say the least—he’s dated before, enough to say he’s familiar with the whole ordeal, but they’ve always been friends first, or coworkers, that gradual kind of relationship. Not being thrown into a booth across from a pretty stranger and trying to remember all the Questions to Ask on the First Date articles he looked up the night before. But that’s something, along with his bashful gaze and clammy hands, he’s not going to admit.

     “Okay, big question, major question,” his eyebrows inch higher with each adjective, “the kind of question that makes or breaks friendships.” Another inch. In the dim lighting of the pub it probably isn’t clear where exactly his eyebrows are, but they’re there, steadily making their way to his hairline. And, for all Tony cares, they can keep going. This question he’s doing a rhetorical drum roll for is a big deal, and very likely does make or break friendships. Particularly his friendships. Because no matter what the answer is, he’ll never shut up about it. Not ten years from now, not next week, not even in the next half hour, when he’s digging into a plate of buffalo wings and trying to convince himself that craft beer isn’t pretentious as fuck while grimacing through another pint. No, there’s no winning here, so the eyebrows stay up.

“ dude, that’s fuckin’ disgusting. ” brows furrow at the disgrace below her, staring with a grimace to match her tone. green hues then shift to meet their gaze —- the sight is almost painful to look at. pineapple on pizza? it should be a crime. “ you’re disgusting. “  /  @yuppied​

Tony casts a glare over the plate of cheesy pineapple goodness. He understands that some people aren’t fortunate enough to have good taste. He does. But having to face the evidence of that sitting across from him, insulting this perfectly made pineapple pizza, is really sinking his sympathy for all bad-opinion-having individuals.

         “   … Would I count as super hot? On a scale of one to ten. Be honest.   ” 

Instantly, Sophie is intrigued by the other questioning her expertise and tastes. It’s not something she experiences everyday. However, many ask for a recommendation at their restaurant and she hadn’t encountered someone unhappy in awhile.  “I do enjoy Chicago deep dish pizza. The downside to it is a lot of dough it used more than normal pizza, but it’s really good. And I find it to be original. On the contrary, New York is like plain ol’ traditional, so I’ll have to say that. There are easy ways to screw up a pizza, like burning it, not having delicious toppings, or just not putting your heart and soul into it like I do,”

A little chuckle leaves the blonde’s lips as she leans against the counter, multitasking in the moment as a customer came by to pay their bill. Then she direct her attention back towards Anthony. “Do you have a favourite style, and what do you like on it?”

He’s got that look in his eyes as he nods, that contemplative, if-I-had-a-notebook-I’d-be-writing-this-down look. Because really, he would. Anthony Addens doesn’t know the first thing about pizza beyond the fact that it tastes good. He knows there’s dough and sauce and toppings involved, but he doesn’t know the semantics of it all, the art behind pizza making. He doesn’t know the hierarchy of styles, just that he likes them all. So if he had a pen and a sheet of paper, he’d be taking notes. Chicago, good. New York, superior.

It’s this same lack of knowledge that causes him to falter when the question’s redirected at him.

     “Uhhhhh,” there’s a hum as he purses his lips, taking a moment to think, before he manages a shrug, “I mean, if I had to pick a favorite, probably Detroit. It’s kinda like a halfway point between Chicago and New York, y’know?” Except there’s nothing in the middle besides a bunch of dough. “And I like anything on my pizza. Pepperoni, olives, bell peppers, all of it. Not like, all together in one big mess, but like, any combination of toppings—I like. I’m not picky.”

And he’s fine to leave it at that, drop the toppings discussion, and ask more questions about her pizza expertise, before something crosses his mind—an exception. “Except for anchovies. Anchovies are heinous and putting them on pizza is a crime.” Now again, if there were a paper and pencil present, he’d be asking her to jot that down. And underline it. Twice. Because if there’s anything that would shake his belief that she’s an expert on all things pizza, it would be the acceptance of anchovies.

He doesn’t know the etiquette at these things. In his twenty-three years of life, Tony has been in a bar a total of two times—and both times were while being accompanied by friends, in a booth, eating hot wings. This experience involves none of that. He’s here with people, yes—coworkers, but they left his side almost immediately upon entering the place. To watch some show happening on the stage (he can’t quite see it from here, or there, or any place he tries to angle himself, because of the sheer volume of the crowd surrounding it). Something interesting, he figures, but not interesting enough to grab his attention away from the actual bar. Where, hopefully, there will be some actual food.

There aren’t many seats open, and few that are, are wedged between people he’s never met before. Which is great for other situations, like diners, where Tony knows all about the etiquette and how to carry himself in your average ma and pa establishment. Not so great for environments where Tony knows fuck all about anything. But whatever! Getting out of your comfort zone and all that! He settles for finding the friendliest face and approaching them.

Which takes all of five seconds.