Fake the Funk

The man across the table is sweating through his collar.

I watch a bead of moisture travel from his temple down the side of his jaw. He dabs at it with a napkin that was probably starched this morning. Now it's a limp rag in his fist.

"So," he says. "Your mother tells me you're a dancer."

I take a long sip of my water. Let him wait. The restaurant is one of those places where the lighting is engineered to make everyone look ten years younger and twenty percent richer. Crystal chandeliers. Waiters in black vests. A piano somewhere doing its best to be forgotten.

"I'm a choreographer," I say. "But yes. I dance."

His name is Marcus. He's a tax attorney. He has a condo in the Marina and a golden retriever named Bentley. I know all this because my mother sent me a three-page dossier before this dinner. His hobbies include hiking, craft beer, and "netflix and chill" which she put in quotes like she didn't understand what it meant.

She understood.

"Choreographer," he repeats, like he's tasting the word. "That's fascinating. What kind of choreography?"

The question is innocent enough. But I see the way his eyes drop to my chest when he thinks I'm not looking. I see the little smile that says he's already imagining what kind of dancing I do.

"Contemporary," I say. "Some commercial work. Music videos."

His eyebrows go up. "Music videos. Like, with celebrities?"

I think about the shoot last week. The director screaming at a nineteen-year-old influencer to "make it look like you actually want to touch him." The influencer crying in the bathroom. The reshoot. The final cut where she looked bored and beautiful and completely hollow.

"Sometimes," I say.

The waiter arrives with our appetizers. Marcus ordered for both of us without asking. Seared scallops with a truffle foam that smells like my grandmother's funeral parlor. He reaches for my hand across the table.

I let him take it.

His palm is damp. His grip is too firm, like he's trying to prove something. He's not a bad guy. That's the worst part. He's perfectly fine. He has a good job and good teeth and he'll probably make some woman very happy someday.

Just not me.

"So," he says, still holding my hand. "What are you looking for? In a relationship."

The question hangs between us like a grenade with the pin half-pulled. I could give him the safe answer. Companionship. Someone to share life with. All the things my mother wants me to want.

But I'm tired. I'm so tired of these dinners. Of these men. Of this whole performance.

"I'm not looking for anything," I say.

His grip loosens. "I'm sorry?"

"I'm not looking for a relationship, Marcus. I'm here because my mother made me promise to give you a chance. And I did. Here's your chance. I'm giving it to you."

He pulls his hand back. Wipes it on his pants. "That's. That's pretty direct."

"I'm a direct person."

"No kidding." He laughs, but it's hollow. "Look, I get it. Your mom's been trying to set you up for a while. Mine too. It's rough."

"It's not that I don't want to find someone." The words come out before I can stop them. "I do. I want to find someone who makes me forget my own name. Someone who touches me like they're memorizing my skin. Someone who doesn't ask me what kind of dancing I do like they're trying to figure out if I'll put on a show for them later."

His face goes red. "I wasn't. That's not what I was."

"Yes it was."

He opens his mouth. Closes it. The piano player hits a wrong note and recovers.

"Okay," Marcus says. "Maybe it was. But can you blame me? You're gorgeous. And you said music videos. What am I supposed to think?"

"That I'm a person. Not a fantasy."

The words land harder than I meant them to. He looks down at his scallops. The truffle foam has started to separate, pooling into a greasy puddle on the plate.

"You know what my last relationship was?" I ask.

He shakes his head.

"Six months with a man who told me he loved me while he was inside me. And then he asked if I could teach his sister how to twerk for her bachelorette party."

Marcus blinks. "Did you?"

"Did I what?"

"Teach his sister."

I stare at him. For a long moment, neither of us breathes. Then he cracks a smile. And I crack one back.

"You're an asshole," I say.

"So I've been told." He picks up his fork. "For what it's worth, I think your ex is an idiot. And I'm sorry I made assumptions."

"You're still sweating."

"It's hot in here."

"It's not."

He laughs. Full. Real. "No. It's not. I'm nervous. You're intimidating as hell."

"Good."

"I mean it. You walk in here like you own the place. Like you know something I don't. And you probably do."

I pick up my fork. The scallops are cold now. I eat one anyway.

"Do you want to know what I'm actually looking for?" I ask.

"Sure."

"Someone who doesn't lie. Someone who tells me what they want. Even if it's ugly. Even if it's messy. I'd rather have the truth than a pretty lie."

Marcus sets down his fork. He looks at me for a long time. The piano shifts into something slower. More intimate.

"What I want," he says slowly, "is to stop pretending this is going somewhere. I want to stop wasting your time and my time. But I also want to stop disappointing my mother."

I laugh. It surprises me.

"Same," I say.

"So what do we do?"

The question sits between us. Open. Honest.

I think about my mother's texts. The passive-aggressive comments about her friends' grandchildren. The way she sighs when I walk through the door alone.

I think about Marcus's mother. Probably the same. Probably worse.

"I have an idea," I say. "But you're going to think I'm crazy."

"Try me."

"Thanksgiving is in three weeks. My whole family will be there. My mother. My aunts. My grandmother who keeps asking if I'm a lesbian because I haven't brought a man home in two years."

Marcus winces. "Rough."

"I need a boyfriend for one weekend. Someone who can show up, smile, hold my hand, and pretend he's madly in love with me."

He stares at me. The chandelier light catches his eyes. They're brown. Warm. Not unkind.

"And what do you need from me?" he asks.

"Nothing. I'll owe you. A favor. Whatever you want."

"Whatever I want."

The words hang in the air. Heavy. Loaded.

"Yes," I say.

He picks up his wine glass. Swirls it. Drinks.

"One condition," he says.

"Name it."

"We tell each other the truth. The whole time. No pretending we're something we're not. If you're uncomfortable, you tell me. If I cross a line, you tell me. And at the end of it, we walk away clean."

I hold out my hand.

He takes it.

"Deal," I say.

His palm is still damp. But this time, I don't pull away.