to even consider getting married. And of course he¶s in the back. Of course. Because it wouldn¶t be a night out if I wasn¶t forced to endure some type of humiliation, like walking a mile across afloor littered with peanut shells in inappropriate shoes. How long have I been walking? Ishould¶ve brought a pedometer; I might not even have to go to the gym tomorrow. I think I hatehim. Oh God, what if he hates me? If the waitress asks, I¶ll correct her first.She paused and clutched the back of an occupied seat, realizing that she only had a fewminutes, at most, to decide whether or not she wanted to ditch this date.She considered her options: there was still time to catch the live broadcast of that singingcompetition²you know, the one with the washed up pop star judge from the 80s and the meanguy?But there wasn¶t anything to eat at home.Order in? She thought, imagining the decadence of placing an order of heaping piles of lomein, egg rolls and, if she was being honest with herself, probably a couple orders of crabrangoons, too. All for one person. Was this guy going to be able topthat?Her datewas studying the menu, his eyebrows knitted together in concentration behindthick rimmed black glasses. His head was just slightly bent down, enough so that Lucille couldsee he had a full head of black hair.Virile, she thought.He was thin, but not in a way that would make her feel self-conscious about her ownweight, she thought with relief. He wore a loosely buttoned chambray oxford shirt, rolled upthree-quarters length and complemented by a yellow plastic Swatch on his wrist. His front shirt pocket held a pack of American Spirits.Hip.