A droubble by EwanL
Jane looked across the table. Not bad. Better than many. She watched. The person opposite lifted their glass. Enough to wet the lips. Good. Last week's was dreadful. She should have known. 'Social Drinker'. Well yes, that kind of socialising was as insane as socialism, in Jane's view. Still, this one wasn't from Second Life, so maybe they had a first one. And another thing, the mobile wasn't even on the table! Jane's had been, but she'd taken advantage of the prospective's visit to the loo to put it back in the Fendi. Prospective: they'd all become that after the first 20. Jane remembered dates: the fumbles in the Odeon or prawns, steak and BFG at the Berni Inn. You hadn't been dating in the seventies if you thought BFG had anything to do with Roald Dahl. No, this was a meeting with a prospective partner. Someone algorithms thought was compatible with whatever they reduced your on-line profile to.
The phone rang. Not Jane's. Her stomach tightened. What a shame.
'Ignore it, I am.'
'It might be important,' Jane said.
'I never answer the phone on a date.'
A smile. Jane smiled back.
'Should have done this years ago, Angela.'