A/N: Here is part two. I was a little hesitant. It is not as obviously humorous as the first part, but I hope you all find it funny nonetheless. I hope also that I hear more from everyone. I got a lot of alerts, but few comments.

Just Another Monday, Part Two

A good agent is always early on a first contact. To be late is to be dead in the field. It only takes one ambush to never be late again. I am, therefore, at the restaurant ten minutes before the set time of seven thirty, even if I had to pay extra for the cab to get me here from my apartment so quickly.

The restaurant is nice, but not fancy. I tried to get Mason to agree to refund me considering he's the one who's making me do this (I don't normally like to be set up. It can lead to awkward moments), but he refused. That means we're eating on a CIA budget. I hope she doesn't drink too expensive wine. I decide not to risk it and make plans to order first.

I rub my hand over the linen tablecloth one more time. It's a bit rough, but somehow soothing. I've always loved the feel of pressed linen. I inch my hand forward and feel for the napkin and silverware. The napkin's folded neatly between the silver. I almost don't want to take the cloth. It always seems like I'm wiping my mouth on someone's origami.

I take another sip of ice water, wishing this woman would hurry up and arrive.

The couple next to me is newly wed, or at least, they haven't been married for longer than five years. They aren't feeding each other, thank goodness – that always drives me crazy – but from the sound of her heel rubbing against his leather shoes, they haven't grown past the footsy stage. Their conversation is rather mundane, however, so I focus my attention on the businessmen directly behind me.

There are five of them from the sound of it. I feel sorry for the guy closest to me. He is obviously the rookie of the bunch. They aren't listening to him much. The man in charge has a deep voice and it's drowning out the rookie's soft interjections. The second in command is a bit of a suck-up. He's making a few good points, but most, if not all, of them back up the boss. I would lay money that his suit is impeccable and his hair is greasy.

Most of my attention, though, is focused on the man I can only guess is the boss' relative. He keeps disagreeing with the head, but I have to say, he's doing it tactfully. His argument sounds strong, but then again, I've never really been all that interested in the stock market, so I can't be a good judge. I get the feeling the brown-noser doesn't like him much.

All in all, the table seems like the epitome of a business meeting and the very reason I didn't follow my mother's wishes when she wanted me to be an accountant.

I am so engrossed in studying the men and practicing my craft of spying, I jump a bit when someone timidly says, "Hello? Are you August Anderson?"

I scramble to my feet and gesture to the seat across from mine. "Auggie, please. And you must be Ms. Marshburg?" I wait until I hear her sit down before I do the same, just as my manners dictate.

"Patricia's fine."

Her voice is soft and awkward. I get the feeling Mason didn't think it necessary to mention that I'm blind. Great. Leave me to deal with it. I'm saving the receipt of this dinner.

In the deception course (or as we call it, the "Flirting" class) at the Farm, we're told that you have to hide what you can and spill what you can't. Our instructors use that rule of thumb when it comes to getting an asset to trust you, but I think the theory can still be applied.

"Yeah, I'm blind." Okay, blunter than perhaps she can handle, but it's not like there's another way of doing it.

"I kind of guessed that."

She doesn't even break a small smile. Not for the first time tonight, I'm asking myself why Mason had to choose me.

I listen to her fidget in her seat. Her hair keeps brushing against her shoulders, so she's probably looking around the room, avoiding me. If I want this date to end without mishap, I'm going to have to get her to look at me.

Dating used to be so much easier when I could see. I was top in my class in flirting – sorry, deception – and I've always had a natural way with women. But since the accident, I get more looks of pity than interest. No biggie, though, I don't need to marry this woman, just finish this date and then punch Mason in the jaw.

"I can promise you, I won't bite."

"What would you like to drink tonight?" the waiter breaks in before she can respond. "We have a fine selection of wines or perhaps you would prefer champagne?"

Frankly, I've never been a big fan of champagne or wine, but I think now is not the time to order a brew. "Una bottigila di Ecco Domani Merlot, per favore." I slip into the Italian without even realizing it until I've already started.

"Molto buon. Qualsiasi annata in particolare?"

I have to think about that for a second. I haven't had to remember good wine years in a long time. "Scegliete. Vi fido."

"Grazie, signor."

Patricia waits until the waiter disappears into the crowd before asking, "You speak Italian?"

I try as best I can to meet her eyes. "Enough to get around. I spent a year in southern Rome."

I had a short (in CIA time) sleeper assignment to upset one of the more ruthless Italian mafias with a big cell in Rome. My language skills aren't in the same league as say, Annie's, but I'm not going to lie and say I'm not more than fluent in a couple of the romances, including Italian.

"What were you doing?" Patricia is warming to me. She's not fidgeting as much, at least.

I fight the urge to reach for my water. It's a trainee mistake to try and deflect a lie with a delaying action. I keep my breathing steady and allow a remembering smile to appear on my face. That mission had been far from a day on the beach, but there were a couple of good times with a woman that I let show on my face to add credibility.

"I was studying the language and government."

"I thought you worked with Ron?"

It took me a minute to realize who Ron was. No one calls Mason by his first name. "I do." I certainly hope I'm right in assuming Mason's cover is the same as mine. Of course, it's probably not going to bite me in the ass later.

"Oh." I can tell she's got another question bubbling inside her, but she doesn't want to ask.

I hear our waiter's rapid footsteps nearing our table, and I turn toward the sound. "Your menus, signora, signor."

My menu is in Braille. I shouldn't be surprised, the classier restaurants will sometimes have them, but I always am. It's a nice to be able to read the menu instead of having to depend on someone reading it to me or only choosing the specials. It is a pity I don't actually need one now. I always get my favorite dish.

"And your wine." He pours me a taster and I swirl it a bit before inhaling the rich aroma that sends me back to the field. He takes my nod of approval and pours first Patricia then me a glass before leaving the bottle.

I take another sip. I can feel Patricia's eyes following my every move and I almost wish she would go back to avoiding me. "Is there something you wanted to ask?"

All her apprehension is back. She's acting a little like a yo-yo. "How could you know that?"

I give her a lopsided grin. "I'm not deaf. You keep inhaling deep breaths like you want to say something, but you let the air out before you do."

While I've been speaking, I've been reading my menu. I know it's not exactly polite, but it's not like I'm breaking any eye contact. I've decided to go with my usual meal. I push my menu aside and place my hands flat on the table and lean in a bit closer to her.

"I bet I can guess what you really want to ask me." She starts to defend herself, but I smile a real smile and continue. "Yes, I when I was in Italy I could see, which answers your question about whether I was always blind. Your next question will logically be how I went blind. The answer is a simple accident."

Patricia must have recognized that I'm telling her this to break the ice, because she doesn't hold back her next question. "How long ago?"

"Have you decided what you would like for dinner?" The waiter has returned.

I sit up straighter. "I'm ready. Patricia?"

I hear Patricia straighten too. Her voice is a little stronger when she addresses our waiter. "Not quite. Could you give me a few more minutes?"

"Of course, signora." The waiter's voice turns back to me. "Would you like something in the meantime? An appetizer, perhaps?"

I'm already spending a fair portion of my paycheck tonight, what's a few more dollars? Plus, I have always had a weakness for parmesan-peppercorn. "We'll take one calamari, please."

The waiter scurries off to the kitchens and I turn my focus on my date.

"Everything seems so good," she says, her voice slightly muffled as it's angled at the table and not me. "What are you having?"

"I'm having my favorite, the capellini pomodoro. It's in the pasta section."

I hear her flip through the lists before she finds it. "That sounds good. I guess I'll have that."

The waiter's not heading toward us, so we sit in a semi-awkward silence for about a minute before I remember she asked me something before the waiter arrived.

"Almost five years."

"What?" Patricia sounds surprised. Either she was staring at something behind me, or at me.

"Since the accident. You asked me before."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

I hate it when people say that. It's not like they told me to go check out the dog-bomb or made me freeze when I heard the countdown. It's really kind of annoying after a while. "Why? It was my own fault and I'm used to it."

That came out gruffer than I expected, but after you hear the same irritating thing over and over again it gets harder to control the inflections. Patricia's clamed up again. Damn.

"My turn, what is it you do? Ma—Ron didn't say."

"I'm a dental hygienist."

The waiter arriving with our food saves me from having to think of an appropriate response. I take a risk and order both our meals. Patricia didn't seem to mind.

"How do you eat the, um…?"

"Calamari? Well, I'm partial to the white marinara sauce, but all of them are good. Would you mind handing me the white one, please?" She hesitates for a moment before taking my hand and putting the cup into the palm. It works, but it is slightly awkward positioning for me. I decide not to tell her that, though.

"I find that if I," I pause to put down the cup and pick up one of my two spoons, "put a little sauce on the appetizer plate," I find the plates and hand her hers while getting my own, and I quickly spoon some of the sauce on the side of the plate, "it is much cleaner than reaching across the table and dipping the peppercorn fondue style." I serve myself some of the breaded morsels and gently stick one with my fork and dip it in the sauce. I shrug a little. "Not completely traditional, but it works."

Oh, I'd forgotten how much I love calamari. The squid is a little chewy, but its fishy flavor is complimented perfectly by the creamy sauce. For a moment, I forget where I am. I guess my contentment shows on my face, because she giggles and I hear her following my example.

It takes a few more minutes, but by the time we're to the main dish, she's warmed up considerably.

~OOOOOO~

Patricia is a bit tipsy from the wine. Now that she's standing and I'm actually listening, I guess she's only about five-one. It makes quite a difference when she takes my arm outside the restaurant.

"My apartment's only a few blocks away." Her words are not exactly slurred, but a few more sips of wine and they probably would be. She cannot hold her liquor.

"It's a nice night. Are you up for a walk?" I don't wait for her answer before unfolding my cane. I hadn't needed it inside because she'd led me and there wasn't enough space to be wielding a long stick. I've found it can make people a little nervous in close quarters.

She tenses at the sight of the cane as if suddenly remembering I'm "handicapped". I'm not surprised.

This cane is a deadly weapon that can part seas of people, but it's also a flag that says (sometimes) too much. I used to hate going out in public with it, thinking it was a sign that I was weak and dependent. It only took one day on the street without it to realize that I'd rather be dependent on a piece of sturdy fiberglass than punched in the balls by a fire extinguisher.

I don't give Patricia time to clam up again as I start walking. She quickly regains her alcohol-fuzzy senses and loops her arm into mine to lead the way.

We stop outside her apartment building some minutes later.

"This is it," she says unnecessarily.

"Yeah." I hate these kinds of silences. She's not moving away from my arm. In fact, unless my gut's lying, she's looking up at my face. I can smell the garlic and basil on her breath. It's not strong enough to be unpleasant, per say, but it's not exactly roses.

"Do you want to know what I look like?" Red flags spring up in my mind. I was afraid of this! "You can touch my face if you want."

It is a complete fabrication that a blind guy can tell how you look if he feels your face. I mean, I can tell if you have high cheekbones or a hawkish nose or something, but that's about it. Touch isn't like sight. You can't really feel the big picture.

For those blind people like me, the ones who've had sight and can remember it, we can't visualize an image from our fingers. Sure, we can tell you if it's oval and bumpy it's an egg, but unless we have a visual memory to connect to, all we're feeling is a couple of bumps or a hot surface.

So when some semi-drunk date asks if I want to feel her face, I'm put in a difficult spot. I have two standard reactions after the red warning flags.

The first possible option is: "Oh, I get to feel her up." I may be blind, but I'm still a guy and getting a walk to second base is nothing to turn your nose up at.

The second option, more common now than before, is: "She could sneeze on my hands and give me swine flu."

In this case, it's the swine flu.

There weren't many people left in the restaurant by the time we left, but when Patricia first sat down at my table, none of the businessmen moved. While we were eating and their discussion was winding down, none of them made the effort to drop something so they could look at her, and when they left, they didn't step nearer our table.

Now if five businessmen are eating at a table, logic says that at least two of them are married. Social norms being what they are, it can also be assumed that at least one of the two is having marital trouble, and the three remaining probably don't get a lot of chances.

And even if the businessmen beat the odds and are not all unlucky in marriage or love, the very fact that her best friend's boyfriend had to set her up with one of his co-workers doesn't bode well for her chances even without adding in the bit about the only guy her best friend's boyfriend could get to agree to go out with her is blind.

My point is that Patricia must not be drop-dead gorgeous.

"It's okay. I know how you look," I respond.

She pushes away from me, suddenly angry. "Fine. Good night, Mr. Anderson."

I hear her unlock the door and shut it in a fury. Not the best way to end a date, but it works.

I sigh and start walking down the block. If I'm going to catch a taxi this late at night, I'll have to go to a more populated area.

I just want to go to bed. Tomorrow's Tuesday and Tuesdays are never better than Mondays.

A/N: Well? Oh, the Italian might be a little faulty. I took four years of Spanish, but I can only say "Lo seinto, pero no hablo espanol." I used my translator and did my best to check the grammar, but who knows. If it's too painful for someone fluent, I'll change it. Remember to review!