Truth Or Date. Portia MacIntosh

late for work and then a customer was absolutely horrible to me.’

      ‘You should’ve told them to “piss off”,’ he laughs.

      ‘Well, I would’ve liked to, but you know what they say: the customer is always right. Expect when they’re wrong, like today,’ I laugh.

      ‘What do you mean?’ he asks.

      ‘What do I mean?’ I echo.

      ‘The customer is always right expect when they’re wrong,’ he repeats back to me.

      I can’t help but cock my head and furrow my brow in confusion.

      ‘It’s a joke,’ I tell him. I mean, I know it’s not my best material, but even so.

      ‘I don’t get it,’ he tells me.

      ‘Never mind,’ I smile as the waiter sets a steak down in front of Deano and a pizza in front of me.

      As the smell of the food fills my nostrils I feel my mood lift, it looks incredible too. I can’t wait to tuck in, except…

      ‘Come on, what do you mean?’ he persists, clearly annoyed he’s not getting it.

      ‘It’s just a saying, it doesn’t matter. You know what they say: explaining a joke is a like dissecting a frog; you learn a lot but the frog dies in the process.’

      Deano thinks for a second.

      ‘What do you mean?’ he asks again.

      Are you fucking kidding me?

      ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I laugh, taking the pizza slicer and resisting the urge to use it on myself instead of my food. I’ve just realised something: Deano is dumb. Maybe it’s come from years of getting his head stomped on out on the rugby field, I don’t know, but that’s why he’s so quiet, he has nothing to say, and I instantly don’t like anyone who doesn’t get my jokes because personally I think I’m hilarious.

      We eat our food in near perfect silence, with the exception of “That’s Amore” playing in the background, the quiet buzz of everyone else’s conversations, and the sound of Deano chomping on his steak loudly. His steak is so rare I’m surprised I can’t here it mooing – not that it would have a chance to open its mouth at the rate he’s shovelling it down.

      As the waiter heads over to clear our plates, he asks us if we’d like to see the dessert menu. To be honest, I’m bored out of my mind and I want this date to be over, but my pizza was so delicious and I know they have amazing desserts here, and something yummy and sweet would mean the night wasn’t a complete washout.

      ‘Yes please,’ I reply. He promptly brings me a menu, so I start scanning the list.

      ‘They do bomboloni,’ I say excitedly out loud.

      ‘What do you mean?’ Deano asks – his catchphrase it seems.

      ‘They’re Italian doughnuts,’ I reply.

      ‘If it fits your macros,’ he replies, and it’s my turn to be confused.

      ‘What do you mean?’ I ask, followed by a little chuckle because I just inadvertently did a Deano.

      ‘Heavy on the carbs, high in fat – is it really worth it?’

      ‘Dude, they’re doughnuts,’ I remind him. Everyone knows doughnuts are bad for you but we still eat them because they’re doughnuts. And these are Italian, cream-filled doughnuts with chocolate sauce, so they’re super impossible to resist.

      ‘So, what can I get you?’ our very enthusiastic waiter asks.

      ‘Nothing for me, cheers,’ Deano replies.

      ‘Yeah, I think I’ll give it a miss too, thanks,’ I tell him, handing my menu back.

      The enthusiastic waiter’s face falls, like a kid who just found out there’s no Santa Claus. I feel similar inside.

      ‘I’ll get you the bill,’ he tells us.

      It’s not that I’m taking this muscly moron’s advice, but I don’t really want to spend any more time with him. He’s not a bad person, but he’s boring and his priorities are all wrong. Doughnuts above everything.

      ‘I’ll be back,’ he tells me, wandering off in the direction of the toilets.

      The only thing stopping me leaving right now is my manners, so I sit and wait until he returns.

      Moments later Deano is back as promised and I am happy because it means I can go home.

      ‘The men’s room was out of order, I had to use the disabled toilet,’ he tells me.

      ‘Good for you,’ I reply, confused as to why he thought I’d be interested, although I wouldn’t be surprised if he did have some kind of brain damage courtesy of his job.

      ‘Anyway, while I was in there, I was just thinking about how much I want to take you in there and fuck you right now.’

      I stare at him blankly, blinking my eyes in disbelief once or twice. Not only is that a pretty gross request anyway, but it’s not like we’ve been getting on, we have zero chemistry and he said no to doughnuts – so why would I want to have sex with him?

      ‘Well, I mean, that’s why they have the handles on the walls, right?’ I joke, no better words coming to mind.

      ‘So, shall we?’

      Oh shit, he’s serious.

      ‘Erm, no!’ I squeak.

      Should I be flattered right now? Also, why does it need to be the disabled loo, why can’t it be the regular loo? What does he need all that extra space for?

      ‘Well, I had to ask,’ Deano says. ‘Want to go somewhere and grab a drink?’

      Yes, but not with you. Soon as I get out of here I’m going to swing by one of my favourite bars (because it’s a pretty safe bet one of my friends will be there) and drink until I forget this date happened.

      ‘No, I’m pretty tired. But thank you, it’s been, erm…’

      Nope, can’t even lie.

      ‘Yeah, maybe see you again soon?’

      Not a chance, mister.

      ‘Maybe.’

       Chapter 5

      I gaze down at my half-eaten birthday cake. It’s a big, pink thing. Like a cupcake for a giant or a drunk 27-year-old woman hoping for diabetes ASAP, covered in a heap of pink frosting, littered with dolly mixtures and jellybeans, reminiscent of something fresh out of a Willy Wonka novel. The box it came in said that it was intended to serve twenty, but by the time Millsy and I cut ourselves a piece the other night, there was much less than eighteen slices of a similar size left. It seemed like a reasonable portion size at the time, but as we munched our way through it whilst watching old episodes of South Park, we started feeling increasingly sick. Millsy, whose motto is “workout more to eat more” was the first to bow out, but I wouldn’t be beaten. It was the middle of the night, but we were still a little tipsy and when Millsy is drunk, he regresses to being a stroppy toddler. He threw the remainder of his cake in the bin, but he was so sickened with it that he couldn’t stand to watch me eat mine either, so he took my cake from me and threw it away too. I’d have been angry, were it not so funny. He denied all knowledge of it the following morning.

      It’s 1am, and I’ve just got in from a Matcher date from hell with Deano – but, aren’t they all? It was so bad, I had to go to a bar and chain drink cocktails to try and forget that it happened, but now I’m home, starving and in need of something to soak up all the booze, and I finally feel strong enough to tackle the cake again.

      I pop the kettle on and grab myself a big, sharp knife from the drawer. I cut myself