The Jane reminded me of home. The tables and chairs were a glossy white set on top of grey concrete floors. Each one held a tiny succulent in a grey pot, which the headwaiter, Lora, lovingly took care of. A guest once tried to walk out with one of them and Lora had chased them down the street yelling in Bulgarian until they sheepishly handed it back to her. No one messed with Lora’s succulents. The bar was modern and impressive. A neon pink sign that said Are you the creator or the created? —lit up one expansive white wall. “Very European,” I heard the guests say as they examined the space. Europe: pink and white and neon! I would think, smiling to myself.

It was defiant of the typical restaurant/bar scene in Seattle, which veered toward a chic grunge look. I took it that Kurt Cobain still had his fingers in everything, even from the grave. My home was London, an unparalleled city in every way. But, I was still searching, whoring around America till I burned off my emotional baggage. I wasn’t ready to go back yet.

I was carrying in a tray of glasses, which I had poached from the dishwasher, when I saw him. He was scooted in at the far end of the bar, the place we call no man’s land. His elbows rested right next to the container of maraschino cherries and olives I used to spruce up the drinks. I sighed because he looked like a talker. And then I recognized him. Splinter guy! I felt self-conscious and wished I’d put on fresh eyeliner this morning. Drew on new wings.

“Splinter guy!” I said.

“Oh, ouch. I’ve had better nicknames.” He grinned at me. He looked sleepy, like he’d either just rolled out of bed or he hadn’t seen one in a while.

“You ran off pretty quickly the other day,” I said. “I barely had time to thank you.”

“I had a…thing.”

“A thing?” I repeated, a half smile on my lips. It was funny when men described their philandering as a thing.

I moved a tray of freshly filled salt shakers to a different spot on the bar to make room for the rack of glasses, and gave him a sideways stare.

“You’re nosy,” he said.

I shrugged like I wasn’t and started setting the shakers on the tables.

“Okay,” he said, defensively. “There was a thing with this girl. But, I’m not seeing her anymore. It’s over.” He said “over” with a large amount of relief. I finished setting out the salt shakers and dusted my hands, watching his face.

“Why is it over? What did she do that wasn’t to your liking?”

He didn’t hesitate to answer, which surprised me since he’d just called me nosy.

“She thought we were more serious than we were. I told her in the beginning that I wasn’t looking for a relationship.”

“Right,” I said. “How many months ago was the beginning?”

“Six.” He shrugged.

“So you’re seeing this girl for half a year, fucking her I assume—”

He nodded.

“And she finally asks what’s going on with the two of you?”

“Yes,” he nods, “but that was already established from day one. We were just having fun.”

I sighed. “First of all, you’re a dick,” I said.

He opened his mouth to argue, but I held up my hand to shush him.

“It’s perfectly normal after seeing someone consistently for six months to wonder where the relationship is going.”

“But, in the beginning—”

“No,” I said. “That was the beginning. She’s not a robot. She’s a human being with feelings.”

“Okay, okay.” He held up his hands. “I’m a dick. I shouldn’t have let it go on that long without having a discussion.”

I nodded, both hands perched on my hips.

“God, I need a drink after that. What do you have for whiskey?”

He rubbed a hand across his face and I listed off our selection.

“I guess it’s a little early for whiskey,” he said. “What about beer?”

I pointed to the row of beer behind the bar. He chewed his lip while he studied them.

“Can you say each of their names?” he asked.

“What? Why?”

“I like to listen to you speak.” He grinned. “I’m just trying to keep you talking.”

“There are numbers you can call for that sort of fetish,” I told him.

“One nine hundred girls, girls, girls,” he said. We both laughed. Obviously, we’d both seen too many late night commercials.

“Your best IPA then,” he said. His voice was deep and his lips puckered around the letter ‘p’ like it tasted good.

“You’re not a morning person,” he said, thoughtfully. “That may be a problem.” So many ‘p’s—I was staring.

“A problem?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “I am a morning person. So how will that work?”

I set down the glass I was holding and dried my hands. He wasn’t smirking, I checked twice.

“I’m not following.” My smile was forced—we both knew that. I moved toward the tap, flipped it forward. Beer foamed then turned deep amber. I slid his beer across the counter until it nudged his hand. A gentle reminder to shut the fuck up.

“Our relationship,” he said. “Our marriage. You’re not a morning person. Who will make my breakfast?”

I glanced around to see if anyone else was around to hear this, but it was just the two of us. Again. The guy was a loon. I’d let a loon duct-tape my splinter. He was completely serious too.

I rested my elbows on the bar, adjusting my face so that I looked more amused than raged and leaned forward.

“Are you drunk?” I asked. I hoped he was because then I could forgive him.

He widened his eyes and shook his head like I was the one saying something absurd.

“Are you on meds?”

This time he pursed his lips. “For what?”

“Being insane.”

“No,” he said firmly. “I’m sound.” He reached up and tapped his temple. He was wearing fingerless gloves.

I nodded. “Okay,” I said, slowly. “You’re just the type of guy who wants a woman around to make his breakfast. But only for six months, and it can’t get too serious.”

I moved away, lifting my elbows from the bar and turning my back on him to survey the bottles of liquor that needed restocking. Enough with this guy, enough with all guys. You could order a dildo right to your mailbox. Men needed to learn how dire that situation was for them.

“My asshole days are over,” he said. “I’ve only been in love for a few minutes, I’m not sure how to handle it. Besides, I broke up with Elizabeth for you.”

I spun around to look at him.

“Dude,” I said—and I’d practiced saying it just like the Americans—“You’re deeply in love with yourself. You’re also drinking beer at eleven o’ clock in the morning.” I pushed a menu into his hands, during which time he never took his eyes off of my face. “I won’t make you breakfast. Not ever. But, Jerry our cook will. He’s a little on the angry side, but his eggs are the shit.”

“I like angry,” he said. “I like you. I’ll take three of Jerry’s angry scrambled eggs and a side of toast.”

I rolled my eyes.

“You like me,” he said. “Just a little.” He held his fingers up and pinched the air to show me how little. I shook my head and he made his pinch smaller. I shrugged.

“I’ll take it. I’m a man in love and I’m grasping at straws.” He had an excellent poker face. I was almost convinced. I felt a little sad for the girls who’d fallen for the joker—especially Elizabeth: the sincere eyes and the emotional lips. How many hearts had he fucked beyond repair?

I busied myself at the computer, putting in his order. I could feel his eyes on my back, the sexual heat of someone wondering what your skin tastes like.

“Hey,” he said when I brought him his breakfast and got him another beer. “Is that your newspaper?” He jutted his chin to where the paper sat behind me. “Do you mind?”

“You could just look on your phone,” I said, with a small smile.

“Nah,” he said. “Phones are bullshit, give me a newspaper any day.”

I handed him my newspaper without looking at him. I didn’t want him to know that I actually did like him.

“The Cheetos too,” he said.

I didn’t say anything as I dropped my half-stale bag of chips in front of him. He winked at me and I rolled my eyes.

“Cheesy,” I said.

His mouth was already full. “Me or the Cheetos?”

“Both.”

And then we got lunch-shift busy. I only saw him once more to drop off his check. He didn’t leave his number like I expected he would, and I never learned his name. He was the guy in the beanie who wanted to marry me.