Dinner Near Mr. and Mrs. Patel

My reservation was for 9:00. Thankfully my table placement was smashing. My repulsive boss, Daniel Patel, had his back to me. Please don't misunderstand, thanks to an elaborate disguise I was unrecognizable, it's just that paranoia can be quite the bitch.

I kept my neck upright just long enough to see any semblance of color disappear from the cheeks of Mrs. Patel the first time our eyes met. I continued to feel them as I re-read the vast selection of appetizers.

Knowing Mr. Patel's smart phone constantly rings, beeps and buzzes, I tapped mine to the tune of Tiny Dancer on the tabletop to give the illusion I was either awaiting an important call, or contemplating placing one.

Out of the corner of my left eye, as I perused the gaudy collection of Italian art adorning the walls, I noticed Daniel turn around and look my way. Though blurry, outlandish body language indicated he was informing his suspicious wife that never before had he seen my face. Making multiple moves Mrs. Patel would deem abnormal, I put my head down and softly mouthed the dessert menu. I giggled at the word, "mascarpone." I not so subtly adjusted the abundance of material covering my real breasts.

No longer having the stomach to eat at the restaurant, I apologized to the waiter, handed him a hundred-dollar bill, and asked that the entire helping of penne al'arrabiata be boxed up so I could devour it in front of the television clad in sweat pants and a colossal sweatshirt made of wool.

He chuckled, then informed me that, despite the large crowd awaiting seats, my plea did not put him out. He scampered to the kitchen and made my meal suitable for travel, tying the plastic sack so tightly that no aroma would linger in my rental.

Were I portraying myself, I might have non-verbally expressed a romantic interest in the uber-professional waiter. Nothing makes Murph weak in the knees like competence.

With my left hand atop the bag of food, stocked full of breadsticks inconsumable by a single human being, I used the index finger on my right hand to summon the super-sexy server. Seductively into his ear, I whispered that underneath my plate was a second hundred-dollar bill that I hoped could go toward the purchase of the alcoholic beverage Mr. Patel sips at the conclusion of each hard day. Because the Federal Reserve Note was worth ten drinks, the waiter agreed to make the delivery a full five minutes after I vacated the premises. The contents of the glass, he would loudly announce.