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She really wasn’t his type.
In fact, as far as he was concerned, she was very much out of his league. She was the girl who grew up with the silver spoon, everything she needed draped right out in front of her, and he was the working stiff from Yonkers, who actually had to do his job and earn his money the hard way. They were two very different people, and he certainly didn’t expect for her to be actually interested in seeing him again after she gave him her number at the hockey fundraiser. But she was pretty, the conversation was good, and it had been a while since he had actually been on a date with someone outside of his work environment, so he figured he might as well give it a shot and call her.
After all, who could it hurt?
When she actually picked up the phone and agreed to go to dinner with him, he was shocked. They didn’t really have anything in common. He wasn’t even sure they’d have anything to talk about. But she suggested a restaurant on the Upper East Side, that was very much out of his price range, but had one of the best chefs in the area, and she was offering to buy. Later, Messer would tell him that he sold his soul for his stomach, but he didn’t quite see it that way. He was going to dinner with a nice girl. Again, what was the harm in that?
One dinner became two, two dinners became three, and before he knew it, he was being interrupted by a robber in a tuxedo, and his business was all over the NYPD grapevine. Not that he would have particularly cared one way or the other, but all the talk concerning them was probably what killed the relationship. Not that it would have lasted much longer anyway—all they had had from the get-go was sexual tension and a shared love of fine food, but that kind of love isn’t going to last you forever.
Considering he probably wouldn’t have called her if she hadn’t mentioned the food to begin with, he probably would consider it valid to say that he was seduced by his stomach. However, will he ever actually admit that in public?
No. Probably not.
387 words
In fact, as far as he was concerned, she was very much out of his league. She was the girl who grew up with the silver spoon, everything she needed draped right out in front of her, and he was the working stiff from Yonkers, who actually had to do his job and earn his money the hard way. They were two very different people, and he certainly didn’t expect for her to be actually interested in seeing him again after she gave him her number at the hockey fundraiser. But she was pretty, the conversation was good, and it had been a while since he had actually been on a date with someone outside of his work environment, so he figured he might as well give it a shot and call her.
After all, who could it hurt?
When she actually picked up the phone and agreed to go to dinner with him, he was shocked. They didn’t really have anything in common. He wasn’t even sure they’d have anything to talk about. But she suggested a restaurant on the Upper East Side, that was very much out of his price range, but had one of the best chefs in the area, and she was offering to buy. Later, Messer would tell him that he sold his soul for his stomach, but he didn’t quite see it that way. He was going to dinner with a nice girl. Again, what was the harm in that?
One dinner became two, two dinners became three, and before he knew it, he was being interrupted by a robber in a tuxedo, and his business was all over the NYPD grapevine. Not that he would have particularly cared one way or the other, but all the talk concerning them was probably what killed the relationship. Not that it would have lasted much longer anyway—all they had had from the get-go was sexual tension and a shared love of fine food, but that kind of love isn’t going to last you forever.
Considering he probably wouldn’t have called her if she hadn’t mentioned the food to begin with, he probably would consider it valid to say that he was seduced by his stomach. However, will he ever actually admit that in public?
No. Probably not.
387 words
