“She’s great. Just great. Wonderful and great.”

Charlotte leans forward and puts her elbows on the table while I gush about Brooklyn.

Holy cle**age, Batman. Don’t look directly at the cle**age. Look at the ceiling.

“They have a light burnt out. I should tell someone,” I mutter as I stare above our table.

I feel Charlotte’s hand cover mine on the table. Swallowing thickly, I will my penis not to make a fool of himself under the table. I can feel him perking up and that’s all I need—him standing at attention, slamming against the underside of the table, and making the glasses and plates clang together. And now I’m picturing my penis rising up like a phoenix and repeatedly smacking against the table like he’s knocking on a door. Maybe that would impress her. “Hey, Charlotte, look what my penis can do!”

Charlotte’s thumb starts tracing small circles on top of my hand, and I’m pretty sure the clanging of the table is about to commence in two seconds.

“Brooklyn is really pretty. A little crazy, but pretty. Does she make you happy?”

She makes me happy when she’s passed out cold.

“Totally happy. She’s great.”

When she’s not speaking. Or breathing.

“That’s good. I’m glad you’ve found someone who makes you as happy as Rocco makes me.”

Why can’t Rocco just die already in a fiery crash?

“Are you guys ready to order or do you need a few minutes?” Our waitress interrupts as she stands next to the table with her pen and notepad.

Charlotte takes her hand off of mine and moves it into her lap. I want her hand touching me again. It’s such a casual thing for her to do, but it has me all tied up in knots. Now my penis has switched from a majestic, mythical bird to a fire-breathing dragon that wants to destroy the town. It’s time for me to attempt the next item on the list, though, so I need to chill the f**k out.

“I’ll have the Steak Diane and she’ll have the Shrimp Scampi,” I tell the waitress with a confident smile.

“I’m allergic to shellfish,” Charlotte replies, giving me a funny look.

Shit! How could I forget that! Okay, be cool. Try again.

“I know, I was just making sure you remembered. Actually, she’ll have the petite filet.”

The waitress crosses it out and writes down the new order.

“I’m not really in the mood for steak,” Charlotte states.

“Okaaaaay, she’ll have the grilled chicken and avocado club.”

Why is this so much cooler when guys do it in the movies?

“I don’t like avocado. It’s mushy and gross.”

Son of a bitch!

At this point the waitress has crossed off and scribbled so much on the first page that she has to flip it over and start on a second page.

“Southwest chicken sandwich?”

Charlotte makes a face and shakes her head.

“Four cheese pasta?”

She shakes her head again and I start to panic. I already closed the menu and handed it to the waitress so I could look cool and smart. Now I look like a tool because I can’t remember anything else on the menu. At this point it would probably be best if I could smack my penis into the table. It’d be more entertaining than this train wreck.

“What would you suggest?” I ask the waitress, trying to give her a look with my eyes that says “Help me the f**k out with this!”

“I would suggest you let her order for herself,” the waitress replies in a bored voice.

She is so not getting a twenty percent tip.

“You can order anything on the menu!” I tell Charlotte with my best air of authority.

“Yeah, thanks. I was planning on doing that anyway. Are you okay?”

No! I’m not okay because I love you and you won’t love me back if I don’t even know what the f**k you want to eat!

“I’m great! Money is no object.”

Now Charlotte and the waitress are both looking at me like I’m a douchebag, but I can’t shut up.

“She’ll have the most expensive thing on the menu.”

“Seriously, I’m fine with just soup and salad,” Charlotte states.

Soup and salad only costs ten dollars. That does not make me look cooler than Rocco.

“And she’ll have a bottle of wine. I’ll have a bottle too. As a matter of fact, buy those people a bottle of wine as well,” I tell the waitress, pointing at two women sitting at the table next to us.

“You want to order wine for people you don’t know?” the waitress asks.

Don’t question me. The customer is always right, God dammit!

“We’ll also have a cheesecake. A whole cheesecake. And so will those ladies over there.”

“I’m pretty sure those ladies are already eating cheesecake,” the waitress tells me.

Can you just help me the f**k out already?!

“Really, I don’t need a whole bottle of wine. Or an entire cheesecake.”

“We’ll just have one of everything on the menu.”

Take THAT, Rocco!

“I think I’ll give you guys a few minutes,” the waitress mumbles.

“No, no, it’s fine. He’ll have the Steak Diane, medium-well, I’ll have the French onion soup with a side salad and Italian dressing, and we’ll each have a glass of Moscato,” Charlotte explains with a smile as she hands the waitress her own menu.

And just like that, the next item on the list dies a slow, painful, emasculating death.