Robin Huang

There is a hint of bruise-purple on my fingertips as I chew on them, the remnants of lipstick smudges. Delicious, delicious nails, the soft crunch that gives way to the tear, the slow ripping between the realm of what is mine and what is free to the world… I set what I can free—my crescent-shaped nail fragments lie there in the bathroom sink, going down the drain, free to tumble wherever the water flows. The less attached something is to me, the better off it is. The blood staining the nails thin out in the water. But more fresh blood pours forth from the wound, which I continue to terrorize with my teeth, not at all discouraged by the pain that each bite induces. In fact, the pain spurs me on, eclipses the outline of the man who had been sitting in front of me all evening, blurs his stubble, dulls the prominent mole on his left cheekbone. It is only when I briefly stop my attack of canines against hangnails, easing up on my barbarity, that my vision comes into focus again. Yellowed teeth, sunken pores, that mole, now elucidated and inescapable, belonging to a man whose name I do not care to remember.

I vaguely recall a flash of a suede bomber jacket, a peek of graying chest hairs from under his V-neck. He surprised me by pulling out my chair, explaining that he is the old-fashioned kind, even though nothing about this date is old-fashioned. In return, I acted as the perfect lady, content with nodding along to everything he said, for men like him hate correction; they are unable to reconcile with the possibility that they may be wrong. These days, he said, it’s always political correctness this and that; beware the great offender! God forbid anyone have humor anymore, this sensitive new generation. Not to sound old or anything!

He did sound old. He is old, by my standards. Fifty or so, I remembered his online profile said. We look like father and daughter, the waitress probably would have remarked so if she wasn’t getting tipped so much (I understand; I am in the same boat). When we opened the menu, him with his fumbling sausage fingers, swiping past the pages as if it were a screen—these San Francisco techies—I suppressed the rising bile in the back of my throat for a pretty flash of my teeth instead. We’ll have two glasses of your best Cabernet Sauvignon, he announced, and a plate of paella and white-wine-broiled shrimp. We’ll share, family-style.

One thing I can’t complain about is the free meals that these dates bring; it’s even better when it’s luxurious food like this, but it doesn’t matter, any small mercy given to my measly bank account is appreciated. When I tasted the wine after clinking glasses with him, perhaps something of a sweet bliss came over me, relaxed my features, because his lips immediately twisted into a smirk, smug that I was enjoying myself on his dime and therefore would have to pay the favor back. I was sure he had always expected it anyway, but with every sip, I felt like I was cornering myself into a trap until I could only cower and abide by his whims. Is this really the only option?

There is certainly a choice, I know that logically, but only one of my options involves having eight hundred dollars, which means a bag, a nice trench coat, formal and floral dresses alike, and perhaps even a pair of quintessential nude pumps. Before you accuse me of vanity, think for a minute: eight hundred dollars for a single date! Now, isn’t it smart of me to accept this deal, so very obviously in my favor? I just have to subdue that sticky little thing called dignity and grit my teeth through our interactions. So I asked, in a sickly-sweet voice, smiling like an American girl doll, how was your day, knowing that what all these men really desired was someone to listen to them.

Oh, it went well, he said. All I remember is spoon-feeding my clients a whole lot of data and advice; consulting work’s like that, the more you hold their hand through it, the more they trust you, the tighter they grip your hand, and thus a bond is formed. Though, they don’t really need any help; but hey, they pay me, so who can complain?

I parroted his laughter. The customer’s always right, eh? That definitely applied to my line of work, both day and night. If you’ve ever wondered how to get big tips even while smelling like cooking oil and hash brown grease, make sure your smile is plastered on. Tighten the mask until it sits flush against your face; don’t let even the tiniest of slip-ups through, the faintest hints of annoyance. The most obnoxious of customers receive the biggest of smiles, ear-splittingly big, the chirpiest Hi, what can I get yas, to quell the complaints before they even arise. Same thing here; the same old tricks are in play. Being a consultant must be really difficult, I remember saying, boosting his ego. You definitely deserve a break.

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