Ben laughs. “I like a woman with a sense of humor.” As soon as the words leave his mouth his eyes pop open so wide, he looks like he’s about to have a seizure.
“Don’t worry, Dr. Banana Pants, I’m not going to think you like me just because you gave me a compliment.”
He clears his throat nervously before taking a big gulp of his beer. “I … just … well … that is to say …”
I love knowing I have the power to make a brilliant specimen like Dr. Ben Williams lose his ability to speak. Instead of sitting back and letting him suffer, I say, “Waltraut did ask for three ideas, and so far we’ve only come up with one.”
“Yes, but it’s a good one, at least my end of it is.” He arches one eyebrow as though challenging me to a verbal dual.
En garde! Monsieur Snooty Pants.
Instead of slaying him outright, I mumble, "Ad astra per aspera." Then I wave our waiter over to order another drink.
“You speak Latin?” he asks in a super-insulting fashion.
“What, you think only astro-nerds know Latin?”
“I’m sorry,” he says somewhat contritely. “I did ask that in a rather offensive manner.”
“Did you know they put that saying on a plaque to memorialize the astronauts who died on Apollo One? ‘Through adversity to the stars …’ It gives me chills to think of it used like that,” I say.
“What did you mean by it?” he asks with a glint in his eye.
I exhale a great gush of air before answering, “If I can stand working with you for long enough, I’ll see my app reach the stars. But, of course, you knew that …”
He’s grinning like a darn fool. “We both have an agenda for doing this show,” he tells me. “While yours is entirely selfish, mine is to open people’s minds to the possibilities of our infinite universe.”
“You’re such an ass. I’m willing to bet you weren’t even given a choice if you wanted to go back on Wake Up America! It’s my guess your bosses are making you do it.”
His lack of answer confirms my suspicion.
“As to the other ideas we need to pitch,” I continue, “I suggest we do a Decorate for Your Star Sign segment. You could talk about the interiors of rockets or something.”
“I’m sure America couldn’t care less about decorating rockets and, frankly, neither could I.”
I shrug my shoulders. “It’s not my fault that your part of the segment would be boring.”
“How about if we talk about energy wave theory? I can discuss NASA’s efforts in pioneering safe and efficient space travel while traversing electromagnetic waves. You could talk about the best mode of transportation for your star sign.”
That’s actually a great idea, but I’m not going to tell him that. Instead, I say, “Fine. We’ll pitch Waltraut all three segments and let her decide.”
When my paella arrives, I ask our server for an extra plate, then I dish half of it up and hand it over to Ben. “I have more than I need.”
He looks like I’m handing him a plate full of poisonous rat pellets, but ultimately takes it. “Thank you.”
We’re halfway through my entrée when two women around my age approach our table. They stare at Ben like he’s the Second Coming. The taller of the two says, “Hi, are you Dr. Ben Williams? My friend didn’t think you were, but I told her I’d know you anywhere.”
“I’m sorry, have we met?” Ben sounds so nervous you’d think he just got caught plagiarizing his thesis or something.
His fan clearly takes his answer to mean that he is who she thinks he is because she gushes, “I saw you on television this morning. Those pants made my day.”
“Thank you,” I insert into the conversation. “I picked them out for him to wear.”
Dr. Banana Pants’ somewhat excitable admirer turns to me and announces, “That segment was the highlight of my week. At least until coming here and seeing the man in the flesh.” She’s back to drooling after my dinner companion.
Ben looks intensely agitated. His face has turned a bright pink, and his jaw is so clenched you’d probably need a crowbar to pry it open. I decide to have a little fun. “Dr. Ben, are you single or are you seeing somebody?”
“I … I … I’m … why does it matter?”
“I was just thinking that we could do a fun segment where I match you up with a viewer based on her star sign.” I tell his admirer, “I’m adding a dating feature to my app. You aren’t by chance a Leo, are you?”
“I’m a Libra,” she tells me. “But I did some research after your segment and found out that Libra women do well with Gemini men.” She looks at Ben from under her long flirty lashes.
“As flattering as this attention is,” Ben says nervously, “I’m not currently on the market.”
“You’re married?” she asks disappointedly.
“No, just not on the market,” he tells her.
After signing a cocktail napkin for both women, they eventually walk back to their own table. Ben looks relieved and furious at the same time. “If we’re going to work together, you need to know I won’t put up with being put on the spot like that.” He sounds like a stern father about to ground me.
I’m a bit taken aback by his anger. “I was just brainstorming out loud. Plus, she was totally cute and super into you.”
“Well, don’t do it again,” he says with a set jaw.
“Dude, relax,” I tell him. “I just figured a good-looking guy like yourself might enjoy the social aspects of being a national television star.”
“Oh, really? Would you like it if that were a couple of men interested in you?”
Hmm, probably not, but since he’s being so rude about it, I’m not going to admit it. Before I answer, he continues. “Are you going to put yourself out there to date total strangers?”
“Not unless the retired crowd is interested in dating me. Men our age aren’t usually watching morning television.”
“That’s sexist,” he says derisively.
“It would only be sexist if it weren’t true,” I tell him. “But if men in their thirties were morning show people, I’d totally do it.” I think about my sad personal life and once again get excited about my dating app.
“Sure you would,” he says, oozing sarcasm.
“You don’t know me, so don’t pretend you do.”
“I just find it hard to believe any woman would be willing to date some random stranger just because he saw you on TV. It sounds stalkerish.”
“Everyone you don’t already know is a random stranger. That’s how dating works. You meet someone new and learn about them. Then you decide if you want to go out with them again,” I say, before adding, “I’m surprised you don’t know this.”
His face turns slightly red, then he runs his tongue over his teeth. “Okay, fine. You’re also a dating expert who knows the secret to happiness, and I’m a closed-off shut-in who has no idea about the opposite sex.”
I stare at him, wondering if there’s some truth to what he’s saying. Nope. He’s way too good-looking for that to be the case.