Phobias

Trace Adkins slouched through the restaurant lobby, silently cursing his friends for brow-beating him into this. But he forgot all that when he spotted her in the corner of the bar. Her Tinder photo didn’t do her justice. She had straight bangs and bob-cut black hair, like parentheses at either side of her oval face. A caramel complexion. Black spaghetti-strap cocktail dress, flattering a slim waist, flawless skin, and pleasing muscle tone in her upper arms. She could have been a flapper from the 1920s. Trace managed to close his mouth on his way around the bar. 

She swiveled her bar stool as he approached. “Trace Adkins,” she preempted. 

“Lottie Arbanitis,” he said, and extended his hand. 

She took it, but pulled him in for a light kiss on the cheek. 

Intoxicating fragrance. “Great to meet you, Lottie.” He caught the glares of two men at the corner of the bar and permitted himself a smug smile. Then, to Lottie, “You’re early.”

“Reconnaissance,” Lottie said. “If you hadn’t measured up at first glance, I would’ve made a stealthy escape.” 

“So, I should feel good that I made it past the first gate?” he said. 

Lottie narrowed her eyes and curled up the corners of her mouth. “You’re a confident one.” 

Trace smiled. “Shall we?” He offered a palm to help her off the barstool. She took it and stepped down. Trace tried to push down the flush coming up his neck and walked in a way that he hoped masked his arousal. 

When they were seated, Trace started flicking through the menu.

“How about a drink first to get to know each other?” Lottie said.

“Lottie, I like you already. Wine? Or cocktails?” 

“Dirty martini, please,” she said to the server. 

Trace looked at the server and raised two fingers. “Two, please.” 

After the server left, Lottie leaned forward, her elbows on the table. “So, Trace, tell me about yourself. But don’t start with your profession.” 

Trace shared the highlights: birth, upbringing, brother, sister, sports, and college. 

Lottie stopped him in his junior year of college. “Enough facts, Trace. Tell me about you. What makes you tick? Any hobbies, for instance?” 

Trace sat up, gazing over her shoulder. “Hobbies…,” he murmured. “No hobbies, really. More like … habits.” A pause. “Yeah, definitely habits.” 

She laughed. 

He countered, “You?” 

“Not so fast,” she said. “I’m asking the questions. I have to see if you’re qualified for the position.” She paused. “Pet peeves?” 

“Pet peeves, pet peeves…” Trace mused. He looked up. “Misuse of ‘Reply to All.’”

“Ooh, that’s a good one,” she said. “I hate that.” She toggled. “Relationship with your father?” 

“Generally good,” Trace began. “But, well, there was his addiction.” 

Lottie’s eyes widened. “Oh my God. What… 

Trace shook his head. “No, it’s not what you’re thinking. He was hooked on laxatives.” 

“Pfft,” she spat-laughed. “No shit?” 

“Exactly,” he said. “Milk of Magnesia. Tablespoon, twice a day.” 

“You’re making this up!” 

“Serious as a heart attack,” he said. “I tasted a little once. Chalky. Nasty.” 

“Yeesh!” 

“Mint flavor’s not too bad, though.” 

“Stop! I can’t sip my drink!” she protested. 

Trace grew tired of maintaining his clever façade. He tried to turn the tables. 

“‘Lottie,’” he began. “Short for Charlotte, no? Not a common name these days.” 

“Yes, it was more popular a hundred years ago,” Lottie said as if to herself. But she re-took the initiative. “Phobias,” she prompted. 

Trace didn’t flinch. “Inflatable Christmas decorations. Front yards.” 

She arched her eyebrows, and her eyes doubled in size. “Oh, don’t get me started…” 

“Those fucking reindeer,” Trace said. “And the fat Santas give me the heebie-jeebies.” 

“How about those inflatable snowmen?” 

“Oh, shit! Those things are the worst! Especially when they’re inflating them, and those stick arms pop out.” 

“Right?” she gushed, then shuddered. “Hell, I’ll cross the street just to avoid one of those motherfuckers.” 

“Yeah, but even if you cross the street, their fuckin’ eyes follow you,” said Trace. 

“Oh, man.” She looked somberly at her drink. “All this time, I thought it was just me.” 

“Wait a minute,” Trace said, furrowing his brow. “I haven’t seen you at the meetings …” 

At this, she laughed so hard she snorted. She held a hand over her face but kept laughing. Trace almost sprayed the next sip of his drink. 

“OK,” she finally said. “Your turn. If I keep going, I’m going to pee right here.” 

“So, do you often meet people through Tinder?” He squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced to the side. Nice follow-up to all the clever banter, asshole.  Her eyes worked on him like alcohol. Piercing green eyes, black rings around the irises. He might have to hit the men’s room just to collect himself.

Lottie, right elbow propped on the table, twirling a cocktail sword in her fingers, eyed him for a five-count. Her pupils dilated and deepened as if something loomed over Trace’s shoulder. 

“Some,” she said. “Mixed results.” 

“Oh? How so?” 

“Well,” she began, “guys lie on their profiles. I drop-kick those in a hurry. Not even ‘goodbye.’” 

“I hear you.”  

“I’ve met a few tough guys, too,” she said. “No use for them.” 

“What, like gangsters?” said Trace. 

“Oh, no, nothing like that,” she said silkily. “This ‘toxic masculinity’ phrase is overused, but that’s what these guys bring. Leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Some women seem to like it.” 

“And you?” said Trace. 

“I gravitate to tender guys.” She doe-eyed him. 

Trace raised his right hand as if in a pledge. “Tender on Tinder. Look no further. Guilty as charged.” 

Lottie laughed. “You’re quick. I like that.” 

“Same for me,” he said. He pivoted. “So, why aren’t you in a relationship, Lottie? You’re the whole package. Beautiful, clever, mysterious.” 

Lottie considered him for several seconds. “Well, I tend to reel guys in….” 

Trace raised his eyebrows. “Well, consider me hooked, then.”

“Then chew through them pretty quickly.”