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The door to the restaurant is wooden, aged and I wonder why she picked this place. It’s a cozy Italian restaurant; from its appearance, it’s been around longer than me. The bell above jingles as I push against the handle and walk in. She’s sitting in a booth with a book I can’t catch the title of in her hands. I idly wonder how early she got here as I approach.
“Howdy,” I say, and instantly regret it.
She startles, and I set my cowboy hat down on the seat.
“Oh! Hello.”
Her mouth is ever so crooked, tilted down, as she smiles up at me. I sit, despite feeling as though I’ve interrupted her. She gently closes her book and slides it into her bag, which I think is odd since the paperback is so beat up that one of the corners is missing. The cover has a now faded dragon etched into it.
She notices me staring at it.
“I bought it used.”
“So you don’t beat your books up?” I ask, leaning my chin in my hand.
“No, I do. Not this bad usually, but they’re just paper.”
I hum in response, enjoying the way her cheeks flush.
She looks down into her menu, twirling the keys hanging from her neck around her fingers. Hanging off of it is a keychain of Snoopy from Peanuts. It’s cute and I wonder what other little trinkets she must have. She seems like she likes trinkets.
The hostess comes and goes, taking our orders with her. We lapse into a near-awkward silence so common to first dates.
“So, where do you work?”
“Oh, I’m a barista at the airport,” she replies easily, not teasing me about the cliched question.
She smiles when I ask questions about her, so I keep going. She shows me that she was Finn The Human from Adventure Time for halloween, crocheted hat with ears and all.
“Okay so, you’re probably wondering why I asked you to meet me here,” she starts, wringing her hands together.
I tilt my head, a bit confused. We’d been texting before and had been planning this for a week, so I’m not sure what she means. She smiles slightly and something about the glint in her eyes makes me nervous.
My heart picks up. She reaches into her bag. I go through everything that she could possibly pull out of it in my head and none of it is good. I wonder if this was a trap somehow.
She pulls out a picture encased in a clear folder instead of a frame. I see a command strip on the back of it, which faces me. It looks like she pulled it off her wall to bring it with her.
She turns it around in her hands to show me.
I gasp.
I am in that picture. I remember that day. She’s in it too, along with her green haired friend and we’re all hugging that almost formal photo op hug. It was the Dallas Fan Expo when I had met fans and had a Q&A about The Punisher and The Walking Dead.
“I just loved you so much as Frank Castle, Jon. This was an opportunity I couldn’t resist. I hope I didn’t freak you out,” she tells me, sincerely.
“You didn’t. I just didn’t expect this. I’m glad you like the show.”
I am lying. I hate when fans do this. I head to my lawyers office the second the date ends.
“Hello, Mr. Bernthal. Here to file another restraining order?”
“Yes.”