He watched as Chad sat down, opened his white linen napkin, and set it on his lap. He did the same thing, but almost knocked over a wine glass in the process. Chad grabbed it just in time. He sent Treston a look and said, "I'll order for you. The pate de foie gras tout court is phenomenal. And for a main course we'll have the escargot. I hope you don't mind. I prefer ordering two appetizers instead of an appetizer and a main course. I've learned how to eat less in order to maintain a halfway decent body at my age." He laughed and shook his head. "I'm a little quirky when it comes to food, but I'm holding on to the remnants of the body I had twenty years ago by a very thin string. Younger men never seem to get this."
Treston thought it was interesting the way Chad could be so selfish and arrogant, then say something so self-deprecating. So he smiled and said, "I'm fine with that. Order whatever you want." He leaned in closer so no one would hear him. "I watch my diet, too. Trust me, honey, when you have to take off your pants and shake your ass around to make a buck, the last thing you eat is too much garlic bread with your pasta fagioli."
Chad laughed. "At least you have a sense of humor."
Treston shrugged. "Why would you think I didn't? I'm always making jokes. Everyone who knows me loves my sense of humor. Just the other day … " He stopped talking and sat back.
"What's wrong?" Chad asked.
"I have this tendency to talk too much sometimes," Treston said. "My ex-boyfriend, Harlan Rocks, the one who left me stranded at Lake Mead, once said the only way to shut me up is to stick a dick in my mouth." When he realized what he'd just said, he stopped talking again and frowned. "See what I mean? It's something I'm working on. I not only talk too much, but sometimes I say inappropriate things without realizing it."
Chad smiled. "I've been told I don't talk enough. It's something I've been meaning to work on when I get around to it. And for the record, feel free to talk all you want and say anything you want. It's impossible to shock me, and I learned how to tune out years ago when I worked for a director who wouldn't shut up. Half the time I don't listen to anyone anymore."
Another waiter walked up to the table and set two extra-large martini glasses in front of them. Without even asking for a menu, Chad ordered for them both, in French, and told the waiter to bring their best bottle of Pouilly-Fuisse. Before the waiter left, he glanced at Treston and asked, "Would you like anything else?"
Treston had just taken a sip of his martini and he'd been caught off guard. The martini went up his nose, he started choking, and managed to say, "I'm good, thanks." He had no idea what Pouilly-Fusse was and didn't dare try to pronounce it.
Although Treston had no idea what Chad had ordered, he smiled a lot and ate everything the waiter put in front of him. The first appetizer reminded him of chopped chicken liver from a Jewish deli near his apartment and he wished he had a few saltines and some chopped onion to help it go down. The second dish tasted a little like mussels, but chewier and with not as much flavor. A little ketchup would have done wonders for that mess. When Chad asked how the escargot was, he faked a smile, forced himself to swallow, and said, "Tasty," and washed the chewy mess down with a glass of Pouilly-Fuisse. He would have preferred pizza and fried mozzarella sticks, but he didn't want to seem ungrateful. Besides, the atmosphere and the Pouilly-Fuisee made up for what the chewy snails lacked in taste.
During dinner, he listened to Chad complain again about the blond guy who had left in the taxi earlier that evening. "I just don't get him. He could have had the world. All he had to do was ask and I would have given it to him. And how does he repay me? By dumping me in the street in front of a low-class strip club." When he realized what he'd said about Chickey's place, he corrected himself, "You know what I mean."
"You don't have to apologize," Treston said. "I know where I work, I know what I do to make a living, and I know it's not the most respectable place in Vegas. But frankly, Chad, if you don't mind my saying so, I think you have a lot to learn about good manners."
Chad blinked. "What do you mean?"
Treston reached for his wine glass, finished off what was left to wash down the last forkful of chewy escargot, and said, "All I'm saying is you haven't stopped harping about the blond with the funny name, and I have to tell you it's getting a little tired now. Seriously, man. It's a little insulting, too. And for someone who doesn't talk much, you seem to be talking a lot tonight." He leaned forward, looked into Chad's eyes, and held his hand. "Look, I know how hard it is for selfish men like you to understand empathy. Lord knows I've been with enough of them. I could write a fucking book about it. But just try for a moment to understand how I feel right now. I'm sitting across from you and we're on what most people would call a date, and you've completely ignored me and done nothing but talk about the asshole that left you earlier this evening. Now, I know I don't have the best social skills in the world. I just ate a dinner and I don't know what the fuck I swallowed. But I do know it's not polite to spend the night talking about another man when you're out with someone else. Not to mention how fucking boring it is."