� � �
He was feeling a little anxious. That might have gone better. I didn�t make a date, what was I thinking? A week passes. One evening he finds himself in a little Mediterranean place. He doesn�t come here often, just when he needs the reassurance that the world is still standing. He orders some kind of milkshake, not really thinking. Its a little gloomy, it has an old-world ambiance. The waiters are arguing over something behind the counter, but its hard to hear with that hypnotic music playing so loud. His drink arrives.
A figure approaches through the clicking bead curtains that lead to the restrooms. It takes him a second to realize its Irene.
�Hey, I was sitting there� she says, trying not to smile. �I ordered some kind of milkshake�.
�Hey, you know what, maybe I got your order by accident, why don�t you take mine? I didn�t drink any yet. Go ahead�.
�Well, if you think that�s okay�. She hesitates, but sits down right next to him on the bench by the windows. She drinks right out of the glass, avoiding the straw, and almost spits it out.
�It tastes like olives� she says, laughing. �I can�t believe this. Why don�t you try some. Its not supposed to taste like this, is it?�. She gives him a meaningful look, and he swallows.
�Well, how bad could it be?� He tips it tentatively, and gulps down a few mouthfuls.
�Man, never again� he says, turning pale in the face. �You�re not waiting for someone are you?�.
She flushes. �I�m waiting for you to own up to the fact that I like you. Why don�t you just admit it?�
�When you say it like that it sounds easy. You know, if you keep this up, I could be a different person by next week�.
�Well, I mean it� she says.
�You know, a man cannot live on olive milkshakes alone. Why don�t we meet at a museum?�
�Okay�.
�How�s tomorrow at four o�clock?�
�See you then�. She gives him a sidelong glance, that seems tangy for some reason.
He sits there awhile, mulling it over. It�s something you could shake a stick at, he thinks.
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