NOTE: This is just the first chapter – the date is not over! More will follow within the week.
... fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty.
Eileen checked her cellphone's clock again. Another minute had elapsed: Rigby was now fourteen minutes late. She'd rationed herself to checking the time no more than every sixty seconds in an attempt not to get obsessed. Just how self-defeating this was belatedly occurred to her, so she placed her phone on the table in front of her, face down, as condensation from her glass of ice water formed a tiny puddle.
Her own face would hit the table soon if Rigby didn't show. She'd had her eye on him long enough, so she knew he was... well, flaky's not the word. Curiously motivated – that was it. But to be late for a first date? Why would he agree to it if he wasn't going to show up on time? Was it just a stupid mistake to think he'd come at all?
Things had moved pretty fast since he'd called her five days prior. Rigby had phoned her at work, completely out of the blue, asking, almost demanding, that they sit down together and have a deep and meaningful conversation. It was pretty much Eileen's ideal scenario, albeit with Rigby's pectoral muscles less defined than in her daydreams. And they did sit, and did talk, and talk well, right until the coffee shop closed. She was still proud of herself for seizing the initiative and asking, almost demanding, that they do it again next week, this time at a restaurant where they could stay and talk later into the night. Rigby seemed enthusiastic at the time, but since then he hadn't called, or even stopped by the coffee shop, instead dispatching Mordecai for his caffeine and sugar fix. For what Eileen took to be their first real date, the auspices weren't good.
After a brief but intense moment's deliberation, Eileen decided that if Rigby wasn't here by the twentieth minute, she'd send him a text. If that didn't work, she'd walk home alone.
... twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three...
Rigby stopped pacing, puffed out his cheeks, and exhaled firmly. Just another thirty seconds or so until he was officially fashionably late. The internet had told him not to be too eager, not to give too much away. That part wasn't hard. Not getting all dressed up? Not showing up on time? The guys online really knew how to speak his language.
But his late-night research had unearthed some other advice. "Be yourself," the page said. "Women appreciate honestly." Again, this wasn't a problem. Rigby wasn't always the most self-aware, but he knew himself well enough to recognize that keeping quiet wasn't exactly his game.
That came with a cost, though. Sooner or later he knew he was going to say the wrong thing – or, perhaps worse, be totally unable to find the right thing. He fancied his mind like a claw game, with random thoughts strewn below the grabber – some good, some bad, some wildly inappropriate. Whether or not he was able to scoop up a winner was only partially in his control. Sometimes that damn claw just wouldn't grab. Another advantage to this fashionably late deal, he thought: delaying the inevitable screw-up.
... fifty-nine, sixty.
It was time to go inside.
With a shaky thumb hovering over the Send button, Eileen's eyes darted to the door the split-second she heard it open. Finally, there he was. Suddenly self-conscious in her pink dress and pearl necklace, she called out to the ever-casual Rigby.
"Over here!", she said, with the conviction of a woman overboard calling for a lifeboat. She cringed inwardly at the desperation in her voice.
Rigby didn't pick up on it. He was far too concerned with affecting the ubiquitous but oh-so nebulous concept of cool. Why was walking cool so hard? What was walking cool? He felt like he had leg braces on. This wasn't good. At length he made his way to the booth and sat down opposite Eileen.
"Hi, Rigby." It took all her strength to bring her voice back to normal levels.
"Sorry I'm late." He was half-slurring. "I was... y'know. Busy doing stuff." He caught a flicker of sadness in Eileen's expression, and was proud of himself for noticing. Time to change direction. "I mean- I was at work. Benson. He kept me late." What was he saying? This wasn't in the script. "He's a real jerk. This restaurant's nice. How are you doing?" At least the slurring had stopped, but now he felt like someone had pushed his fast-forward button. "Man, where's the waiter? I want some bread. But I saw something about tainted butter on TV yesterday. So just bread. No butter." Finally, someone found the pause button instead. Rigby's eyes were wide and glazed, waiting for someone to press play, preferably after changing the tape to something sane.
This made Eileen feel much better. She allowed herself a moment of optimism: the five days of silence were just down to nerves. Rigby had been building up to this just like her. She still wasn't sure what to make of his timekeeping – she thought she knew him well enough to know that nothing short of the potential end of the world could keep him at work after sundown – but suddenly she felt that they were near enough on level terms.
"Rigby, I'm fine, and thank you for asking. And thanks for letting me know about the tainted butter. That's an important issue in our modern society. I've ordered you a glass of water already." She smiled gently and pushed the glass in his direction. It was the least she could do, she thought, to try to soothe his nerves, even if he had kept her waiting.
Rigby blinked and fell back into life. She'd liked the butter thing? She's bought the Benson thing? Maybe he was cool after all. Time to turn on the charm.
"Thanks," he mumbled, and buried his face in the laminated menu. "What's good here?"
Eileen blinked. Had she offended him? The butter thing – did he think she was making fun of him? She sort of was, but she didn't mean it like that. What was happening? She picked up her own menu and read the words so hard she thought she might burn through the page.