Welcome to Gaia! ::

It wasn’t even that he’d intended to actively mislead someone into a date.

He had downloaded the app for more or less the same reason he had done anything since becoming Kay - on a whim, to see what it was like. It was strange, navigating a memory that was largely defined by its absences. He knew what online dating was, and how to upload a selfie - even what selfies were advisable - and how to match and start a conversation. He could not, no matter how he tried, recall any specific conversations he had had on the app.

Had he gone in with the goal of actually achieving a meeting of any kind, he would have - well, no. He would have been on Grindr, because while he could not remember Grindr, he remembered that it was essentially rendezvous EZ mode. But certainly he would not have let his overall inducement to use the app - pretending he was someone he was not, and being just charming and just off-kilter enough to make it believable - have proceeded to the point of actually putting some innocent person into the position of being let down. But here he was. Probably his tactic of keeping people’s suspicion off his own lies by being invested in their lives and asking them many polite questions and remembering things about them - which was also, at least, a sincere pleasure in knowing people - had succeeded where he had not intended to.

She was probably nice. She seemed nice. But she was in CSI, and that was basically a cop, which made this OK, probably. This is what he told himself as he waited outside the restaurant to meet her, feeling like he at least had not catfished her with any photos and was looking acceptably like himself, while at the same time being reluctant to assign a value to that self, aesthetically speaking. He was clean, he smelled all right and not at all like cigarettes (day three of yet another attempt to kick), and he was dressed decently, although his penchant for floral shirts and very bright socks would not desert him even now. At least that, too, was in keeping with the profile, and also possibly in keeping with the persona Kay had adopted for the duration of their conversation, which was that of an art gallery curator who was currently funemployed. He had tastefully implied, without actually saying it, that he was funding his gap year with the proceeds of an uncle’s inheritance, which he had airily invented without knowing how much money was actually realistic for a retired luthier to leave to a nephew. He had also tastefully implied that a luthier’s inheritance was probably only a little garnish to the zest of a pre-existing healthy bank account.

He currently had eight dollars in his actual account, but he was looking forward to a good old fashioned dine-and-dash, which he hadn’t done in quite some time. And if that failed, well - ******** the pigs right in the coffers, right?

Ah, damn. She was actually pretty as well as nice. He probably could not have spun his real self into a date like this, which was some consolation.

He smiled his usual broad, sincere smile which seemed to have nothing to hide in it as he approached her. "Mel! I went ahead and got us a table and they said it would be a few minutes. I forgot to ask whether you're a hug or a handshake person," he said, his arm out in the vague way that would allow her to do either one smoothly, the choice gracefully given to her. "I hope your day's been great so far, and if it hasn't, I am told the dessert menu here is a cure to all ills."

He accompanied her to stand by the door, the tone of their interaction set by her preference for a handshake, which dictated that he keep a friendly, easy distance: respectful without being cold.

"The one good thing to a day that doesn't come with an adjective," he said, in a tone of great and sincere sympathy, "is that food always tastes better at the end of it. Especially with cherries on top. I'll lodge a request with the chef," he added, in a playful tone that did not ask for her to take this seriously. It was sometimes advantageous to exaggerate your pretend-clout for sarcastic effect - to self-efface with self-deprecating humor - so that the other lies went down smoother.

He had, also, the advantage of those big grey eyes, which were almost childlike in quality, and looked out of his face with an earnestness that seemed to promise frank honesty in all things, and additionally - with their pink eyelids and vaguely bovine quality - gave him an air of placid vulnerability, like a trusting prey animal who had put its nose into your hand in confidence that you would treat it kindly. In fairness, they had worked better when he was nineteen and looked like the boy he was, but they were not without their effectiveness in that face, which provided a juxtaposition that managed to imply that he had grown out facial hair in a desperate effort to seem less like a harmless boy and more like a serious man.

"I hope you at least got to get Lulu out for a while." It was also good to remind people that you listened to them, and remembered what they told you. "I think the rain is going to blow in on us in the next half hour. I was glad it held out."

Maybe the safe topic of dogs and weather was, also, a respectful observation of the tone set by a handshake, and it was all said very pleasantly.

Was it too early to tilt just slightly towards flirtatiousness? Probably not. Not that it mattered, as he would either succeed and get to enjoy the energy, or fail and get to relish the awkwardness. This evening was going to end badly for at least one of them either way.

“I think so too, when I'm able to get to it. I will be motivated tonight to be at my most charming - however charming that is,” he interjected with some chagrin, “- since I suspect I'd enjoy it more with good company.”

He was interrupted in a self-conscious smile at this suggestion that he was already planning to ask her on a second date by his name being called for their table, and by the usual little rituals attendant thereon. He did pull out her chair, but it was in a careless way while he was busy being respectfully pleasant with the hostess and therefore done without any excessive gallantry or showiness; he thoughtfully handed the drinks menu across to her without comment while he ordered only water for himself; while she ordered he did not awkwardly fix his attention on her or outpace her to get a first look at the menu but instead ran his eyes over the room, letting them return to her as soon as they were alone again.

“Not to make you talk shop on an adjective-less day,” he said, “but you know you can't have a job as interesting as crime scene investigator without me wanting to ask you a ton of questions. I even promise I'm not going to ask you about the TV show.” This, cheerfully apologetic, his menu disregarded in one hand as if forgotten in his superior interest in herself. “But let me know if you're sick of talking to strangers about it.”

Tell me how much of a pig you count as, he thought happily, feeling the usual suffusing pleasure of subjecting someone to his uninterrupted company and getting to hear them talk with innocent honesty, however pleasant he decided to make that company at the time. A single covert glance at the menu had assured him that his anticipated dine-and-dash was going to be a doozy. This was one of those places that only listed the prices with two digits and no decimal, in a font with drop numerals. The eight dollars probably wouldn't have covered anything but the free bread.

It would have been nice to think that that he felt a twinge of guilt at how much she was enjoying herself, but the genuine truth was that he didn't. She was enjoying herself; he was entertaining her and making her feel pleasant things; what came afterwards shouldn't act as some sort of retroactive sullying.

The only defense that can be made of him - and it is a slight defense - is that he, in the same situation, would have been equally delighted, and without feeling at all embittered to find out it was all a lie later. He probably would have clapped and applauded and felt like a participant in an unexpected stage show.

Well.

"Well - curators are a bit like critics. We often don't actually have any aptitude for what it is we're picking over." He said this with an apologetic air. "But I think that can be helpful, in some ways. It's all a sort of magic, that way. You never start looking at things with this jaded eye or reducing a sculpture to what was used to make it." He paused, finally looking down at the menu as he continued. "But I guess you get jaded in a different way, seeing it all as potential price tags and provenance. Makes me think I might want some career outside the art field, or working on something more indie. I never want to stop thinking about art the way I do - the way we have this - uncontrollable human urge to capture reality. And that we do it best when we're not capturing it accurately," he added. "I never want to get bored about the fact that an artist lies about the world to tell the truth about it."

Well. This was a bit self-aggrandizing, to be fair. But it was entertainingly so, and it's not like she'd be aware it was self-aggrandizing until later. And it was also, horribly, true. It truly was one of the things that compelled him about the world. So it wasn't even the ease of lying, but the ease of sincerity, that made him say it without hesitating.

"It feels a little gauche to admit it, but I guess I'm grateful that I have the privilege of picking and choosing," he added sheepishly. Good god, the prices at this place. That eight bucks seemed more and more laughable. He debated ordering the most expensive thing on the menu on principle, but valiantly decided to order the third-most, so as not to seem too excessive. "You'll despise me for it as the nepobaby I am, but I barely studied art in college myself. If it comes to old masters and things you probably know more than I do. And I confess I come from a pretty mercenary part of the scene. Another reason to get away from it. You could teach me," he added cheerfully. "The great thing about not knowing much is having a lot to learn."

Damn, damn, damn. Usually the problem was not being able to even relax into a character for a while. But Mel was one of those rare people who had not apparently gone on a date for the purpose of talking about herself. Which is what he'd rather she be doing.

Still, it wasn't impossible to right the ship. He just had to make her comfortable, and he was halfway to doing it. From employment prospects to gig work to dog walking was a hop and a skip, and a dog was always an opening for getting someone to spill their own beans with abandon.

He juggled it as best as he could for the duration of the meal, trying to gently and unobtrusively steer her away from his imagined life and into her real one. The fact that his interest was as sincere as it always was probably helped, but either way, he was feeling a twinge of something that was almost but unfortunately not quite guilt by the time they were sitting over their empty plates, he leaning on his hands with his thumb absently smoothing his mustache as he listened to her with genuine investment until the chatting had, probably, gone on long enough.

"Do you know," he said during a pause, "I think the rain stopped about a half hour ago, unless this place has an incredibly noisy HVAC - and I think that huge party is getting ready to leave." And there was, serendipitously, a large group apparently settling up and getting ready to move to the doors, which he nodded towards. "If you wanna go ahead and n** outside in front of them to beat the crush in the lobby and enjoy the weather, I'll flag down our server to settle up and be out in a minute."

There was absolutely zero suggestion of anything suspect in this. He was, in fact, reaching into his pocket and procuring his wallet as he said it, which he then rested his hand over as he spoke. It was, possibly, even a polite nod to the fact that she might need to call an Uber, and this way he wouldn't be hovering creepily around her while she did it. The fact that he did not simply offer to call her one himself was, maybe, a little odd - but then that, too, was in keeping with his diligent attention. He'd need her address to do that, after all, and he was a gentleman.

He waited until she'd been outside a minute or two before putting his wallet back into his pocket and flagging down his server.

It gave him time to mull over what he was doing and to feel a twinge of guilt, which was both unsettling and novel. Maybe purifying had also cleaned some of the baser grime off his soul. Maybe it was just that it was the first time he'd played the con-man since donning a new name that might have been a clean slate, if he'd wanted to let it. And maybe it was just that Mel seemed terribly nice and - disappointingly - terrible naive. He should have played up the eccentricity and made her think she was on a date with a benevolent insane person, to give her a story to tell later. He'd played it too safe, and she was too nice about it.

Ah, well. The regret was mild, transient, and not enough to urge him towards any real change of behavior.

"I'm so sorry," he apologized to the server, fishing a set of keys out of his pocket to put them down on the table. They were not his keys. He wasn't actually sure whose keys they were, but someone losing their keys at the thrift store and not claiming them for two entire days wasn't his problem. Having spare keys was a useful trick. It made people think you were coming back for them. "My date just ran out to answer a text message and looked pretty alarmed. We were planning on having some coffee before we left. I'll be right back - just want to see if she's still up for it. Maybe I got dine-and-dashed," he added with a laugh, which the server reciprocated amiably.

Having thus bought himself at least ten minutes before anyone noticed that no one was coming back for the bill and therefore the ability to move without needing to actually sprint away at top speed, he ambled out at his leisure after the large party had cleared out, hands in his pockets, unhurried, and addressed her with a sudden question.

"Ah. You had a good time, I hope?"

He asked it with a sudden, earnest sincerity, almost boyish in its open curiosity, and with a certain twinge of vulnerability in it.