𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 | 𝐩. 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐫

𝟎𝟎. 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞

— 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 —

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WHOEVER SAID THE HEART WANTS WHAT IT WANTS DIDN'T BOTHER EXPLAINING HOW TO INTERPRET HOW THE HEART SPEAKS. It's like a child throwing a tantrum really. Screaming and crying out until satisfied, except there's no way to know what's going to satisfy the deep abyss of longing for something more.

These were the thoughts racing through Maxine Jacobs mind as she picked around at the food on her plate. Her fork occasionally clinked against the fine china, forcing her to look up from her meal to see if she'd disturbed anyone around. Nope. The man sitting across from her—supposedly her date—hardly even recognized her presence.

He was a snide man. Thin and gangly. With an overall appearance too neat for her liking and a nose that wrinkled whenever she spoke. She considered clearing her throat and simply saying 'hi' if only to watch his glasses slide off his face and land in his soup bowl for the second time that evening. It was a tempting thought that certainly brought a smile to her own face, but she refrained.

"Marian, was it?"

She looked up from the remnants of salad on her plate, vaguely shocked that he'd broken the pact of silence between them. She managed to hide that surprised expression, yet failed to conceal the chagrin pulling at her lips. "Maxine, but I prefer Max."

Despite the correction, he remained unfazed. He lifted the napkin resting on the table before him then dabbed the fabric across his lips. "Right... Well, Miss Jones. This has been a lovely evening, but I think we both understand this isn't going anywhere. Would you like me to walk you to your car?"

Max shook her head. She could feel the heat that flushed her cheeks as her temper began to rise. She'd introduced herself half-a-dozen times that evening and he had yet to pronounce one syllable correctly. It really wasn't that hard of a name: Maxine Jacobs. She'd even made it simple and told him that he could just refer to her as Max—she'd even take MJ even though that one ranked lower on her list of acceptable nicknames. But no, she'd been called Marian Jones, Mara Jade, Mary Jane, Molly Jo, Marcy Joy, and anything but her own name that would fit the initials.

"I can find my own way," Max replied, placing her tip on the table as she excused herself. "Thank you for the lovely evening, Herman."

A confused look crossed the man's face as the corners of his lips creased. "It's Irving."

"Is it?" Her reply was pure pettiness feigning innocence. She knew his name, she'd made an effort to remember it the first time he'd introduced himself, but she really just couldn't help herself.

She ended the conversation there, snatching her clutch from the table before leaving without so much as a glance behind her.

She'd stopped counting how many blind dates she'd been set up on. It was exhausting participating much less trying to remember each one. So she'd fallen into the habit of going through the motions. The highlight of the evening was the post-date ritual she'd devised: a quiet walk through Flushing Meadows with a cone of strawberry ice cream.