The First Date (The Tech Disaster)
889 Words
Ivy’s POV
"Is this a restaurant or an operating room?" I asked, my voice echoing off the sterile, white-on-white walls of Silicon & Sage.
Julian didn't look up from his smartwatch. "It’s a biodynamic dining experience, Ivy. The lighting is currently adjusting to our circadian rhythms, and the air is being pumped with a scent designed to lower cortisol levels."
"My cortisol is doing just fine, thanks," I muttered, snapping the linen napkin onto my lap. "Usually, people go to dinner to, you know, eat. Not to be biologically manipulated."
A waiter appeared,or rather, a man who looked like he’d been grown in a lab,and placed two small glass vials in front of us. No menus. No breadsticks. Just... tubes.
"What is this? A lab sample?" I poked the vial.
"It’s a palate-cleansing shot of liquid chlorophyll and adaptogens," Julian explained, finally meeting my gaze. He looked entirely too comfortable in this high-tech hive. "The algorithm determined that your energy levels were flagging after your three-hour writing session this afternoon. This will optimize your focus for our 'Date Protocol' discussion."
I stared at him. "You’ve been tracking my energy levels? We’ve been 'dating' for six hours, and you’re already stalking my metabolism?"
"I’m monitoring the success of our partnership," he corrected, his tone as cool as the chlorophyll. "If you’re tired, you’re irritable. If you’re irritable, you won't look like a woman who has found her soulmate. Logic, Ivy."
"Logic this," I snapped, waving the waiter back over. "I don't want a shot of pond water. Bring me the largest, messiest plate of barbecue ribs you have. And a side of loaded fries. Extra cheese."
The waiter blinked, looking horrified. He glanced at Julian.
"The lady is having a... 'rebellion phase,'" Julian said smoothly, though his jaw tightened. "Bring her the ribs. And bring me the steamed sea bass with zero seasoning."
When the food arrived, the contrast was hilarious. Julian sat there delicately picking at a piece of grey fish while I systematically disassembled a rack of ribs that looked like they belonged in a prehistoric museum. I made sure to be as loud and messy as humanly possible, deliberately getting a smudge of sauce on my chin just to see his eye twitch.
"So, Julian," I said, leaning forward and ignoring the 'glitch' notification that was probably screaming on his watch. "Tell me something that isn't in your bio. Something the data missed. Did you ever have a pet? Did you ever cry at a Disney movie? Or were you manufactured in a basement by a group of lonely coders?"
Julian paused, his fork hovering mid-air. For a split second, the robotic mask slipped. His eyes darted to the side, a flicker of something,discomfort? Memory? crossing his face.
"I had a dog," he said, his voice lower than usual. "A Golden Retriever named Syntax."
I snorted, nearly choking on a fry. "You named your dog Syntax? That is the most 'you' thing I’ve ever heard."
"He was... efficient," Julian muttered, though he didn't look at me. "He never barked without a statistical reason."
"Dogs aren't supposed to be efficient, Julian. They’re supposed to be chaos. Just like love." I wiped my hands on the pristine white tablecloth,another point for the 'Anti-Cupid'—and grinned at him. "Your app tries to eliminate the mess, but the mess is the only part that matters."
"The mess is what leads to the 50% divorce rate you so love to tweet about," he countered, regaining his composure. "My app provides stability."
"Stability is just a polite word for 'boring,'" I said. I reached across the table, my saucy fingers accidentally-on-purpose brushing his hand.
Julian froze. His gaze dropped to where my hand touched his. The 'Match Potential' bar on the tablet between us suddenly surged from a steady blue to a flickering, neon pink.
[ ALERT: HEART RATE ANOMALY DETECTED ]
"Your heart rate is climbing, Mr. Vane," I teased, leaning closer. "Is that the adaptogens kicking in, or are you actually having a human reaction to a girl with rib sauce on her face?"
Julian pulled his hand back, his expression returning to stone, but his ears were a distinct shade of pink. "It’s the humidity in the room. I’ll have the manager adjust the HVAC."
"Sure," I laughed, sitting back. "Keep telling yourself that. But the data doesn't lie, remember?"
As we walked out of the restaurant, a flashbulb went off in the distance. The paparazzi. Julian immediately shifted, his arm sliding around my waist to pull me close for the 'money shot.'
"Smile, Ivy," he whispered into my ear, his breath warm against my skin. "We’re supposed to be in love."
"I am smiling," I hissed back, leaning into him even though every cynical bone in my body was screaming. "I’m just imagining the headline for tomorrow's column: The CEO and the Carnivore: A Match Made in a Lab."
"Just make sure you spell 'SoulScript' correctly," he said, his grip tightening just a fraction.
As the car pulled away, I looked at my phone. I had three missed calls from my editor and a notification that my "Stats of Sadness" tweet had been shared ten thousand times.
I was winning. So why did it feel like my own heart rate was the one I should be worried about?
- Writer
