Date Night In Hellflames

Okay. For all of you asking what ever happened to Steve #4, the answer is nothing.

(And in case any of you new readers are confused right now, no, I don’t know four guys all named Steve. This is just a system I’ve devised for the blog: Instead of posting the real names of the men I go on dates with, they’re all referred to as Steve and assigned a number.) 

I’d like to say I have some well formulated rationale regarding the situation, but I mostly just have cramps. So yeah, nothing. After his third try texting me without me responding, he stopped reaching out, and I haven’t had the energy to re-open that can of worms. 

I know all of you Steve #4 shippers are gonna be upset to hear this, and I appreciate your enthusiasm for the saga, but I think we can mark the time of death as Tuesday of last week, when I almost drunk dialed him, but didn’t.  

Also, no one get your hopes up for anything else, because I’m off the dating apps for at least a month.

Last night, I went out with just me and the pen. And let me just say—up until the restaurant literally caught on fire, it was the most fun I’ve had in months. 

But yeah, half the kitchen burned down, and several people needed medical attention. And I may have had something to do with it. Or, at least, the pen did. Or, at least least, something else did, in response to the pen. 

This is actually becoming a major theme: I’m beginning to think that ghosts and demons and haunted objects are more common than I’d previously assumed, and that many of them react to the presence of my pen. 

The restaurant in question was Sirene, a new fish-forward spot on Grand Ave. owned by the same guys that own The Morris. I’d been meaning to go for months with the intention of writing a full review, but last night I was really just planning on enjoying a nice meal.  

I requested a spot where I could have a nice view of the open kitchen, where my back would be facing the wall. (It’s worth noting that the walls in this place are all a very lovely exposed brick. Because anything else would’ve probably incinerated before the firetrucks arrived.)

I could tell Alabaster was in a good mood because the pen was radiating a warmth I could feel through my coat’s breast pocket. I wondered whether, in life, he’d been a fisherman, or a chef himself. Or if he was one of those charmers who lit up in a crowded room. I ordered the sea scallop crudo, and the shrimp chorizo pizza, and then set the pen on the table so Alabaster could enjoy being in a new environment.

Notably, there was an older couple sitting at the table next to ours, drinking cocktails. I probably hadn’t noticed them because neither had said a single word all night, as they were both hunched over folded newspapers doing crossword puzzles. Neither had touched the whole giant lobster laying in the middle of their table, which had been there since before I arrived.  

Both of my entrees were exceptional, and before I knew it, I’d eaten more of each than I’d originally intended, leaving me wondering whether I’d have any room left to try the famous buckwheat donuts with chartreuse cream sauce. Or the kabocha tart.

Then, suddenly, the crossword woman shouted, and began furiously scribbling on her newspaper. 

“Aw, fuck!” 

“I told you this would happen,” the man growled. 

Now that I took a good look at them, it seemed strange that I hadn’t noticed them sooner, just because of how strange they looked. Both were wearing these long, multi-layer gowns, and berets covered in sparkly pins. 

“Shut up,” the woman said. “You say it every time and it’s literally never happened until right now.”

The man laughed.

“Well now you’re screwed. I only have six words left.”

The woman’s face went beet red, and she turned to me. 

“Hey,” she woofed, and pointed directly at Alabaster. “Let me use that pen.” 

A deep instinct pulsed through my nerve branches, and I extended my arm like a shield across the length of the table, nearly knocking my pizza from its pan riser. I was just in the nick of time too, because she’d already lunged across the gap, hand extended like an eagle talon. 

Silverware clattered across the floor. She said several fragmented sentences in quick succession, asking what my problem was, and noting that I “wasn’t even using it.” 

The idea, nay, the blatant insinuation, that Alabaster was the equivalent of a utensil to be used was so offensive I that I could've choked her out right then and there. 

But I didn’t.  I was off balance, and the situation was unfolding too rapidly for me to cognize any decisions. I was a mother bear now, protecting her cub. Using my far arm, I grabbed the pen from the table and held it as far from the woman as possible. She fell from her chair, gripping my arm, draping all of her body weight on me like a soaking wet towel, pulling me to the ground with her. 

At this point, you might be asking yourselves what any of this has to do with the demonic forces I mentioned at the start of this post. Well, if the sudden, manic delirium that had clearly ensorcelled the elderly couple isn’t enough to convince you, try explaining this: As the woman and I wriggled on the floor, untangling ourselves from each other, something happened that should .

The lobster on their table, which had been completely cooked and served on a bed of garnish with a ramekin of liquid butter, was now scuttling, snipping, rasping. Undeniably alive. It fell onto my exposed belly, and ran through the the   

The whole place erupted into a panic, and before anyone really knew what had happened, the lobster entered into the open-concept kitchen. One of the chefs screamed, a pot crashed to the ground, and a massive flame ignited in the space next to the pizza oven. 

My only concern was Alabaster. Somehow, amidst the tumult, the pen had slipped from my hand and slid about two feet across the polished concrete floor, just beyond my grasp. Undeterred by the chaos, the woman began crawling over me, hand over hand like my leg was a climbing rope. I shrieked and dove forward, grasping Albaster into an iron grip. 

Shortly after that, one of the employees came over and ushered us out of the building. I folded myself into the layers of the crowd, weaving through shoulders with a focus and dexterity I’ve never never known. And, the moment I stepped onto the sidewalk, I ran.