Before he could follow through with his question we were interrupted by the waiter asking if we were ready to order. Quinn seemed to reluctantly pull his attention from me but left his arm along the booth at my back. I picked up the menu planning to make a hurried selection. However, for the second time in our short acquaintance, Quinn did that thing that you see in movies but don’t ever experience in real life: without asking for my opinion he ordered for me.
“We will start with the tarte aux champignons and two salade au chevrotin. The lady will have Gigot D´Agneau au jus et Romarin and I’ll have Steak Grillé au Poivre, medium. We’ll also take a bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape, the 2005 Cuvee.”
The waiter bowed slightly at the waist as Quinn plucked the menu from my hand, passing it to him. The server gave us a tight smile, said, “Very good, Sir.” and left
Quinn turned his body back to me and gifted me with his slow, sexy smile. It did strange things to my insides, like making them become a boneless mass of warm giddiness. My brain, also, felt hazy. I didn’t feel the annoyance at his ordering for me that I should have.
Before he could follow through with his question I asked one of my own, “Why are you always keeping score?” Wanting to do something with my hands I pulled my napkin out of the glass; the swan dissolved into a plain, white, linen rectangle. I placed it on my lap.
His voice was low when he spoke, his eyes caressing my lips, “In every relationship or interaction there are winners and losers. It doesn’t matter if it’s business or family or-” he paused for just a fraction of a second, his eyes seeming to burn a brighter blue, “or involvement with the opposite sex. Someone always wins, someone always loses. I don’t like to lose.”
His words were somewhat sobering, my insides started to congeal and my brain managed to catapult over the fog, “That’s an interesting theory.” And it was. It was an interesting theory. I saw merit in it but also felt it was fundamentally flawed, “And, I suppose, if the relationship is between two people who are keeping score then you are right- there will be a winner and a loser. However, if no one is keeping score then no one loses.”
His eyes narrowed at me, just briefly, then he leaned forward resting one forearm along the table, “Just because you don’t keep score doesn’t mean one person isn’t functioning at a deficit in the relationship, taking more than they are giving.” He reached across the table and grabbed his abandoned whiskey glass.
“There were a lot of negatives in that sentence, ‘don’t, doesn’t, isn’t.’ Maybe that’s your problem.”
“My problem?” His eyes narrowed further.
“Yes, your problem. Maybe you’re focused too much on the negatives. The negative invoices on the relationship spreadsheet.” I started to laugh, “My problem is I miss the obvious, your problem is that you pay too much attention to it.”
He seemed to smile in spite himself; a reluctant laugh passed his lips. His gaze was unguarded and appraising as he said, “You might be on to something.” He pulled at his bottom lip with his thumb and forefinger distractedly, continuing his open assessment of me, his smile widening.
I basked in the warmth of his approving gaze briefly before I poked him, “So, what led you to this pessimistic perspective? Do your parents call you all the time wanting you to babysit their cat? Or install gutters on the family house? I helped my dad install gutters on our house when I was sixteen. It was truly awful.”
An expression which could only be described as grim melancholy cast a shadow over Quinn’s face. He plainly swallowed with effort then said, “I don’t talk to my parents. I haven’t talked to them since my brother died.”
My own smile immediately waned and I stared at him for a long moment. I fiddled with my napkin then set it down, clasping my hands in my lap. “Oh. Well…” I nodded, feeling like I needed to offer something in return, just in case he was keeping score on personal factoids, “I talked to my dad a few weeks ago, when I lost my job. We don’t really talk much but he’s a good guy. He sends me email forwards. I don’t talk to either of my sisters.”
He gave me a sideways glance, “Why not?”
“We don’t really have anything in common and their choices in careers makes it difficult to maintain a meaningful relationship.”
“Both my father and my brother were police officers in Boston. They were not too happy with my choice of career.”
“What? A security guard or consultant or whatever you are?”
Quinn’s mouth hooked to the side and he paused before responding, his eyes moving over me, his expression somewhere between bemused and amused, “No, actually. When I was younger I was something of a reverse hacker.”