CHASING THE ATLANTIC | H.S

III.

So go on break up my rеlationships and break my fucking heart

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III. PLEASEXANNY

The date was going horribly.

Charlotte was picking at her pasta, trying her hardest not to rest her elbows on the table as she people-watched.

Her date wasn't necessarily interested in talking to anyone other than himself, which was his main issue. The other issue was how annoyed he seemed at her—even from the moment they met. Every few seconds he'd tell her 'speak up' or 'I can't understand you through your accent'. Which was bullshit, might she add. She was fluent in English, and a tiny twang and lilt of French every few words was not changing her intelligence.

So she mostly fell quiet, listening to how his businesses are doing, or humming in disinterested agreement when he ranted about how useless banks are, and how all of his money is liquidated.

He made her feel stupid. Like a dumb doll, perched on a shelf. He was there to look at her, use her, touch her. And she was inanimate—her feelings didn't matter. She forced herself to sit up straight, to order the least expensive dish on the menu, and bolt out the front doors of the restaurant the second he was finished open-mouth chewing his steak.

She wished she hadn't worn the black mini dress with a pink bow. She tainted its memory; it was the dress she met Harry in, and now it is the dress she had the world's worst first date in. To make her outfit more tasteful, she had slipped on a pair of sheer black tights and leather, heeled boots with a matching jacket thrown over her shoulders, but her date didn't seem to give a second glance to her clothing.

Harry would've complimented me, she thought.

Then she spent the next few minutes wondering what he'd comment on first. Whether he'd say her eyes look beautiful or her outfit is stunning, or if he'd go right to her chunky boots or how high her dress sat on her thighs. But she knew what he'd compliment first—"Amour, your smile is gorgeous. You look like a movie star,"

Shaking him from her thoughts, she focused on the man in front of her. The horrible demon-spawn whose mother was the dating app she joined. He marketed himself very differently online, explaining he was modest and looking for a long-term girlfriend. But now that she's thinking harder, maybe him putting humbleness under special skills was an oversight on her end.

"Where are you from?"

The first question he asked her all night happened when the check came.

"Gordes, France," she said. He snatched up the bill before she could even speak about how they were splitting the tab.

"But... you came here legally, right?" He seemed uncertain, his pen hovering over the signature.

Her eyebrows furrowed. Was he serious? "Yes, I'm a U.S citizen," she sighed tiredly, but didn't offer up any more information. He was looking at her like she was a wild animal, like he was judging every sentence that fell from her mouth, every movement she made.

Once he put the check down, she gathered her purse and jacket from the back of the chair, standing up. She was relieved the date was ending, but she decided she wouldn't tell Harry of the outcome. It was embarrassing enough to admit she needed the help of a dating app to find a worthy candidate, let alone the fact her date went so badly it ended in her clarifying she wasn't an illegal alien.

He followed her out of the restaurant, hand resting at the small of her back. She tried to flinch away, but his fingers only pressed into her harder.

"So..." he trailed off. She was going north, back to the subway station at the end of the street. The valet where his car was parked was south, just across the street.