Free Losing It by Emma Rathbone

people had sex with people they had nice conversations with all the time.
    I got to the restaurant a little early. It was a seafood place with small white tiles on the floor and a pleasant, dish-clanging energy. There were napkins standing on plates and it seemed expensive.
    I was led to a booth. I sat down and stared at the menu and rummaged through my bag. I found a lint-covered packet of gum I didn’t know I had and started chewing a piece. There was a commotion toward the front. I looked up and saw everyone’s head turned toward a man with a large scruffy dog. They were barreling through the restaurant. A couple of waiters looked at each other, exasperated, and one tried to intercept them. I turned back to the menu and flipped through it a little more, but then I realized they were headed in my direction. I looked up. It was Bill Meeks. He was in front of me, the dog was panting frantically and trying to jump up. Bill got down on his knees and hugged him. “This is Henry,” he said. “Good boy, good boy.”
    I leaned back. I had no idea what to do. Everything was noisily bobbing right there. “Hi,” I said.
    Something was off. Not just because he’d brought a dog into the restaurant. He looked different. He was older than his online photo by at least ten years. His face seemed to have sunken in and bulged out at the sides.
    â€œI just wanted you to meet him. Say hi, Henry!” He held up the dog’s paw. I waved tentatively. “Okay, I’ll be right back,” he said.
    He walked out of the restaurant with the dog and disappeared from view. I sat there, embarrassed, aware that people were still looking my way, and stared at the menu.
    He returned and sat down in front of me. He acted like we were still in the wake of some previous joke or bout of laughter. “I know, I know,” he said, a little out of breath. “He’s the best, he’s a character. So.” He looked at me. “What are we having?” He picked up the menu.
    He was wearing creased khaki pants, a T-shirt that had a cityscape on it and read “St. Louis,” and a navy blue blazer that was too small. On one of his fingers was a large, bulging, golden class ring. He looked like he’d just come off a three-day bender on a friend’s yacht. He was fidgeting under the table, shaking his knee up and down. He glanced up and smiled at me in a distracted way and went back to the menu. He shifted in his seat, sat forward, sat back. He cracked his knuckles, coughed a kind of preliminary cough. He craned around and looked toward the front of the restaurant. He leaned forward and picked up a saltshaker and scrutinized it and put it down.
    â€œHe’s great,” I said. “Henry. He seems really friendly.”
    â€œOh yeah, he’s the best. The best.” He rubbed his hands together, raked them through his hair.
    â€œYou been here before?” he said.
    â€œNo,” I said. “Are you from”—I pointed at his shirt—“St. Louis?”
    â€œWhat? No,” he said. “But I’ve heard it’s the greatest. Just the greatest.”
    â€œYeah,” I said.
    â€œYou’ve been there?” he said.
    â€œSt. Louis? No. But, yeah, I’ve heard it’s pretty good. It’s got that arch.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThat arch?” I pointed to his shirt. “That arch there. The arch?”
    â€œAh,” he said, smiling, vaguely perplexed.
    We went back to the menus. The waitress came and we ordered drinks. I ordered wine and he ordered beer.
    â€œI guess we’re not challenging any gender conventions,” I said.
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œI mean with our drink orders.”
    â€œOh, right.” He regarded me briefly with what seemed like a touch of annoyance. He shook his head quickly as if trying to straighten everything out.
    â€œSo, Julia,” he said, once our drinks were delivered.