Dark Reservations by John Fortunato

each other so well. Last night, Mickey pitches you. Today, you do a commercial for him.”
    â€œYeah, well, let me warn you that Mickey tends to color things a bit.”
    Mickey piped up: “I’ll have you know I was a Boy Scout. And we never lie.” He stood up straight, raised his right hand with two fingers extended, looked at it, and then added one more.
    â€œHe colors things, huh? By how much?”
    â€œThink housepainter.”
    She laughed, and he realized he liked making her laugh.
    â€œSo, how is Joe the Despondent Spelling Bee Champ today?” She pointed to the mug. “Working on another missed win?”
    â€œI guess spelling bee fame is not as fleeting as I once thought.”
    â€œHey, everybody’s entitled to their fifteen minutes.”
    â€œThat’s funny. Mickey just said the same thing. And he doesn’t even know I’m a frustrated spelling bee runner-up.”
    â€œI think she’s got the gift, Joe.” Mickey said. “You know, can sense things like one of them psychics.”
    â€œNo, I’m just an Andy Warhol fan,” she said.
    Mickey leaned in conspiratorially. “Well, I’ve been told I got the gift. And right now I’m sensing I need to order you two a couple of my one-of-a-kind, incredibly delicious roast beef Combos, some red wine, soft music, and put you in that quiet corner over there.” He pointed to a small alcove.
    Joe said nothing.
    Gillian laughed. “I’ll have to take a rain check. My sister is picking me up.”
    â€œDid I say my one-of-a-kind, incredibly delicious, never refused roast beef Combo?”
    â€œI would love to, but I really do have to go.”
    Mickey was a war hero. No surrender. “I’ll tell you what. Tomorrow, you two be here at five thirty and I’ll make my wife’s secret recipe for penne alla vodka.” He put his fingers together, kissed them— smack —and flicked his wrist. “ Bellissimo. ”
    â€œMick, for an Irishman, your Italian sucks,” Joe said.
    â€œHey.” Mickey waved his hands around and spoke in a thick Italian-immigrant voice. “I look Irish, but I cook Italian.”
    Joe and Gillian both laughed.
    â€œI don’t know,” Gillian said.
    â€œLet me tell you. This recipe’ll knock your socks off.…” Mickey leaned over the counter and looked at her feet. “I mean knock your pumps off.”
    â€œWell, if you’re promising to knock my pumps off, Mickey.” She gave him a mischievous grin. “How can a girl refuse?”
    Mickey placed both hands over his heart. “You’re making an old man very happy, missy.” Then he pointed to Joe. “You keep quiet. I don’t want you blowing this.”
    â€œYou’re right,” Joe said. “He is a good PR man.”
    â€œTold you.” Gillian picked up her book and purse. “I’m sure my sister’s outside by now. I guess I’ll see you both tomorrow. Toodles.” She spun around and walked away. Joe thought he’d seen some redness in her cheeks. A blush? Excitement? He liked toodles. He liked a lot of things about her.
    Joe turned back to Mickey. “Maybe I should take you along on my job interviews.”
    â€œMan, drop the funk. You need to wake up, smell the coffee, and mingle with some babes. I look at you and I feel like a teenager.”
    Joe was getting tired of hearing the same thing from everybody.
    â€œWhat’s getting old is that speech.”
    â€œDo yourself a favor. Reach for the life preserver, or else you’re going to drown in your own self-pity.”
    Mickey limped off to check on the pencil chewer. Good riddance.
    Joe took a sip from his mug, forgetting the battle that had waged in him only minutes earlier. He should be happy. Dinner with a beautiful woman. What’s not to like? But it wasn’t about not liking it. He was afraid. He hadn’t been on a