The Truth

“Sings.”

Tiffany nods. “On the one hand, she’s better than half the contestants on American Idol. On the other, she only knows one song. Ahwoooo!”

“That’s quite the audition. For Daisy and you,” I joke.

She shoots me a wry look. “Think you can do better? Let’s hear it.”

“Uh, what?” I don’t sing. I can’t carry a tune in a bucket, as they say. But the challenge in Tiffany’s eyes and the sure set of her lips that I won’t do it makes me want to. Even if I know how bad it’s going to be. “I can’t. I’m an awful singer,” I confess, shaking my head.

“Sure, you can. And did you hear what I sounded like? Pretty sure there are dogs barking for blocks around.”

She looks at me expectantly. Not for me to be good. Hell, she anticipates that I’ll be bad, but she still wants me to do it. That’s it. Just do it.

I go for it, embracing my off-pitch nature. “Ahwooooo!”

“You’re going to Hollywood.” She cheers, flapping a paper towel around. “Come get your golden ticket.”

Frankie leans out his window. “You calling me, Daniel?” I blush, something I haven’t done in actual decades. Frankie grins and says, “Your burgers are ready, man.”

I take the escape and go grab our food, setting the tray of burger baskets and drinks on our table when I come back.

We dig in, and Tiffany moans in delight with her first bite. It’s a sound of pure pleasure, and I’m ashamed to say that my cock responds to it. I shouldn’t have that type of reaction to her. She’s Elle’s best friend. But she’s also a woman, something I was unexpectedly reminded of last night.

I force my mind away from that, focusing on the easy conversation as Tiffany shares more funny observations about the dogs that she dealt with today.

“Oh, her owner says it’s a thyroid thing, but unless a dog’s thyroid makes cheese, I know what the problem is,” she says as she talks about an overweight Dalmatian she cared for today. “That dog needs long walks and less cheddar.”

“I thought we all wanted more cheddar?” I ask, rubbing my thumb and fingers together. Tiffany laughs at my ironic twist, and it feels good. I haven’t made a woman laugh easily in a long time, not naturally, at least.

At the office, people will laugh if I make a joke during a speech or if I laugh first, because then they know it’s ‘okay’ to laugh along with the boss. But most of the time, people’s jokes are safely bland and corporate or just nonexistent.

Tiffany’s laugh, though, is genuine and real. And when she makes me laugh, I feel energized, alive in a way I haven’t been in a long time.

It’s about halfway through our burgers that I have to admit, at least to myself, that I’m learning her various smiles, admiring the sparkling light in her eyes, and enjoying the way she sets up her little jokes with just the right amount of anticipation before ending with a sharp zinger or a subtle twist. If it were anyone else, I’d say this is the best date I’ve ever been on.

But it’s not a date. It’s Tiffany, Elle’s best friend, an employee at Fox, and a woman twenty years my junior.

She’s probably taking pity on the old man who was sitting all alone at the office and will later tell Elle that at least she got me out for a bit and made sure I ate. Like I’m some old invalid, not a vibrant man who ran five miles today, not only keeping up with Ricky but pushing the pace.

“Okay, so I’ve talked about dogs for like, a half-hour solid,” Tiffany says as she dips a sweet potato fry into her herbed garlic mayonnaise. “So . . . your turn. Why were you at work tonight?”

“When am I not at work?” I ask, trying to sound as playful as Tiffany and failing spectacularly, judging by the concern in her eyes. “Truth is, I’ve got very little to fill my hours besides work, which has always been my constant. I’m not going to pretend to have a fake hobby so people will think I’m interesting. Nobody really wants to talk about golf swings or birdwatching, anyway. They only do it to be polite.”

“I’m sure there are other, more exciting things than golf and birdwatching that you could do.” Tiffany narrows her eyes, looking at me as she grins. “I’m picturing you in those plaid shorts, knee socks, and a pompom hat on the green, or a khaki vest with all the pockets and binoculars, and I can’t see either of them. You’re right, I don’t think those are it for you.”

“Well, I don’t know what is.”

“I’m sure you’ve got a social life!” Tiffany exclaims, and I shake my head. “Really?”