Instructed Ladyhunting 4; Mission Accomplished

Part Three

As I sat in the booth, studfully toying with my silverware and awaiting my second serving of milk, I looked back on The Stupid Blogger's instructions with a bit more fondness than I had started the evening with. He must have forseen the unforseen, at least a little. He, in his boundless wisdom, had left gaps in the instruction set for those of us crafty enough to fill them in.

This had to be it, for TSB is a crafty man with his own harem, I have heard it told.

Danielle returned with my milk. The way she held it out for me to take instead of leaning over and setting it down on the soggy napkin herself was an unmistakable little piece of body language. Gap, I thought, and emitted a Chuckle of Confidence™.

"What's so funny?" she asked. I looked up at her and saw that one of her eyebrows was scrunched up higher on her forehead than the other. This was also a signal, I accurately judged. I seized the moment.

"Excuse me," I said, and stood up. Before she could run off, I took one of her soft little hands in my own. I began to make a speech. I put my other hand over my heart.

"This has been such a delightful evening, that I've decided that if you have a boyfriend, I will either resign myself to the fact and sit in this booth and howl until I fall asleep, or I will do tricks until you replace him with me." I said with a soulful deepness to my voice.

"Um."

"I know, I know! The sudden entwining of two kindred souls in a restaurant beside a table with milk on it can be a little creepy. I understand, baby. Would you like me to help you write a breakup letter to your boyfriend?"

"I don't, um, I don't have a boyfriend," said Danielle, nervously adjusting her nametag.

"I've got Mikersoft Wurd on my laptop. Won't take more than a---huh? Hold on. What?"

"I don't have a boyfriend, you crazy little monkey," she said sweetly and with (could this be?) a twinkle in both of her eyeballs.

"Bluh?"

"Nope."

"Sweet chocolate-covered Jesus!" I squealed. Then I remembered The Stupid Blogger's insistence on a state of transcendent coolness. I did my best to hold it in, but I'm afraid I did prance a little. But in place. Not around the room.

"Well! This is spanktacular!" I said with so much vibratory enthusiasm that little flakes of semi-gloss formed a dense cloud around my jacket. I secretly thought of it as my Crumbly Force-Shield of Awesometude™ as I watched Danielle walk unsteadily back to the kitchen to retrieve my Belgian pancakes. I turned around in my seat and leaned over into the neighboring booth where an elderly man and a little boy were eating fishsticks and talking about fishing.

"Howdy!" I said.

"Bah," said the old man.

"Hi," said the little boy.

"I'm making progress with the ladies," I said in a confidential whisper to the lad.

"Grandpa and I are going fishing tomorrow!" said the little boy, excitement plain on his sticky little features.

"Interesting parallel, but not satisfying in the least," I reprimanded. "Have a mint." I handed the little boy a mint. The old man wordlessly took it from his grandson and threw it across the room into the smoking section and the two of them got up to pay their check.

I sat back down and folded my arms crunchily. Ha. Don't need the approval of strange old men. I had Danielle! Tee hee, I thought to myself. Tee hee.

"Here's your pancakes, just like you wanted 'em!" Danielle said, her voice like liquid sliver cascading down a precipice made of tasty cake. "I had the cook make them really fluffy and," she set the plate down, "here's your syrup. I'm going to have to charge you extra for that, though. Sorry." She set down a miniature pitcher of the Cherry Coke syrup I'd asked for. "Let me know how that tastes. I've never heard of anyone putting cola syrup on their pancakes before."

"You're dealing with an entirely new frame of normality here, babe," I grunted. I tried to kiss her knuckles, but she pulled her hand away. Never mind that. There would be time. She stood there, shifting her weight from foot to foot while I poured the concentrated Cherry Coke goo over my pancakes.

"I get off at ten o'clock tonight," she said.

"Is that so?" I looked up, grinned, and went back to pouring.

"Yes. Do you have any plans tonight? I mean, if you're not...well, I mean if you don't mind staying up kind of, uh, late. Some people have responsibilities and all and, well, uh, they need their sleep, I guess."

"Not me, cutestuff," I said. I continued pouring. If you didn't maintain a steady hand, the coating ends up thicker in some areas and thinner in others. "As far as tonight goes, I'm thoroughly useless to society."

"Sooo..."

"Oy?"

Then it hit me. The syrup pitcher squirted out of my hand and bounced off the window.

"You want to get together tonight, don't you?" I hooted. I leaped up and prodded her in the shoulder. "Don't you!"

"If you're not busy, of course. I'm curious to see what kind of facility they keep you in." She grinned.

"A lead-lined chamber designed to keep my awesomeness from leaking into the water supply and poisoning people," I rumbled. I made another dash at her knuckles with my face, but she was too quick.

"So, I'll meet you out front at about ten?"

"I will use the time in between to build a new car out of weeds and duck feathers," I said, bowing. "And if any ninjas try to keep us apart, I will fight them off with a fire extinguisher. I heard of a guy doing that once, and I guaran-dang-tee you that I'd do it with more style."

"Right. Enjoy your pancakes."

"My name is Paul!" I yelled at her back.

"Stop yelling at my buttocks, Paul," she said without turning around.

"Sweet caramel-swirled Moses!"

Then I pranced a little.