My stomach was knotted even before I asked the maitre d' where my date waited;
I couldn't remember last feeling that sour tug. The maitre d' was a porcelain
dandy with pink shaven head, sitting in weary disdain of the fools besetting
his pulpit from all sides. His watery blue eyes indicted me the moment I
stepped inside. I cleared my throat and positioned plenty of diaphragm behind
my words (just another interview to ace), as if the slightest faltering or indirection would betray my illicit intentions. These pricks first let you
stumble, before rescuing you with their service battalions as if showing mercy.
His waxen moustache twitched at my vexatious sabotage, his hand pulling like a
squeegy over his shiny pate. He so politely referred me to the lounge. …
