Sam's Boring Date by Patrick Whitehurst

     Sam fiddled with the cuffs of his flannel, unsure if he should unbutton them, roll them up, or leave them be. It’s not that Amy Chandler made him nervous, though he hadn’t been on a date in ages. He was, however, bored out of his fucking mind.
     “He actually had the balls to tell me I couldn’t return it,” Amy said. “The stitching was frayed! You should have been there. At Saks of all places. It took every ounce of my patience not to raise my voice. We’re not talking about a cheap knock off purse. This is a Moynat Rejane. What am I saying? You already know, you asked me to bring it!”
     “Got into designer purses thanks to my ex.”
     “Divorce? I’m so sorry. Wondered why you asked about purses on the dating app.”
     Sam pinched himself for some excitement. He did it out of Amy’s sight on the other side of their wine glasses. Gave him something to focus on. 
     “Can tell a lot about a lady by the type of arm candy they carry. Must have been terrible dealing with that return,” he said.
     Amy had carrot-colored hair tied in a ponytail and wore a pair of dark cat’s eye glasses. Dating profile said she liked reading and hiking, one of which interested Sam. Her info failed to mention the boredom. 
    “You have no idea,” she said. “I nearly pulled a Karen and asked for the manager. Terrance, that was the clerk’s name, knew enough not to provoke me that way. Not at Saks. Not after I’d spent thousands!”
     “Smart man,” Sam said.
    For the date, he’d donned a black flannel with gray stripes and a pair of black corduroys, with a black JanSport backpack parked near his feet. Figured he didn’t need to dress to the nines. Place told him otherwise. One of the fancy joints downtown. La Ciccia on 30th Street. 
     “Avoid the world, it’s just a lot of dust and drag and means nothing in the end,” Sam quoted his favorite author. “Kerouac wrote that line. Kind of seemed appropriate to your situation.”
     Amy leaned closer. “Oh, the name rings a bell. Does he write YA fantasy?”
     “Stream of consciousness stuff.” Sam sipped his wine. Couldn’t tell if it was worth forty bucks a glass.
     Amy seemed to notice him for the first time. Made duck lips and ran her eyes across his chest. She found the view either savory or unsavory. Sam couldn’t tell which.
     “I love reading,” she said. “I’m big into the Percy Jackson books.”
     “My kid loved them.” Sam turned his attention to the compact lavender purse on the back of her chair. “Never finished your story. Did you get to return it?”
     Her eyes rolled up into the top of her glasses. She took a deep breath. Words spewed forth. Sam didn’t listen but stared at her anyway. With his wine on the table, he pinched himself again. The homemade bread and butter, for now, provided the only sustenance. He knew she’d returned the purse.
    The waiter, a savior who told them about grad school, appeared with his pad in hand and jotted down their dinner order. Amy barked out her request for baked salmon. Sam asked for the chicken parm.
   The waiter sauntered off looking just as bored. Amy winked and made the duck lips again. “Where was I?” she asked. “The smell outside the place. Bad enough I had to return a designer bag, right? But that stench.”
     “City’s like a rotten corpse some days,” Sam said.
     “Right? Sometimes I think I’d be better off in Santa Cruz where things are a little slower. Did I tell you my sister lives there?”
     “Jesus,” Sam said. He caught himself. “I don’t think so. A sister you say?”
     She was mid-sip when he asked the question. She held up a finger.
     “I’ll tell you all about it when I get back from the powder room. She had such a year. Runs a Montessori School near the Beach Boardwalk.”
     “Familiar with the Boardwalk.”
     “Back in a jiff,” she said. He watched her stroll in and out of the pricey mood lighting. Once out of his view, he grabbed the backpack and pulled it into his lap. Unzipped it. Pulled out an eggplant purple knockoff that looked identical in every way. Grabbed her purse and exchanged it with the fake. Dropped the backpack to his feet.
     An empty wine glass greeted Amy when she returned to the table. Sam was gone.
   Outside, in an alley off Cheney Street, he met up with Terrance. He’d been waiting since Sam and Amy sat down and looked pleased to see Sam so soon.
    Sam handed him the backpack. Terrance handed over an envelope of cash.      “Your cut, lady-killer.”
     “Got another two dates tomorrow. Have more of those fakes ready?”
    “People flaunt wealth like I flaunt desperation. Course I’ll have them ready. You’ll get tonight’s cut times two. What happened in there, by the way? Why’d the date end so soon?”
     “You met her when she returned the first bag to you. Went like that,” Sam said.
     “Same bad taste in women as when we worked at The Chronicle?”
     “Two ex-journalists and both single. Might need to work on our tastes,” Sam said.
     “Designer black market pays well, Sam.”
   “Don’t know shit about purses or women, but I do know how to be an asshole. Look for my text tomorrow.”
     Sam walked a block to Randall, hoping he wouldn’t bump into the angry date. Shame he had to leave La Ciccia so soon. Hadn’t had chicken parm in ages.

​​About the author:
Patrick Whitehurst writes from the sweaty, cactus-ridden dustiness of Tucson, Arizona.