"Nah, that's fine."
The waiter inclined his head and turned away.
"Did I hear it right?" Shirley demanded. "Did you actually tell him to make your boeuf bourguignon well done?"
"Yeah, sure." Reggie frowned. "I don't like it bloody."
"Sh!" Shirley glanced frantically at the neighboring tables, but apparently no one there was British—or else they were well bred. Then she leaned forward to hiss, "What do you think boeuf bourguignon is—steak?''
"Well, sure. I mean, steak is beef—so…"
"Beef is steak. Sure." Shirley nodded, resigned. "Flawless logic, Plato."
"Hey!" Reggie frowned. "I ain't no mouse's dog! Come on, Shirl."
"Shirley," she snapped.
Reggie sighed, leaning back in his chair as he began to realize that the evening was not going well. He wondered why she was such a stickler about using her whole name. The girls back in college had been that way, too—or at least, at his last college, the big one his pop had bought him into after the business started, really paying off. Back at Sparta C.C. the girls had been the all-right kind, but these big college skirts were a bunch of snobs.
Like Shirl. Shirley.
"So what do you want to do after dinner? Take in a movie?"
She brightened. "Wonderful idea—I always love those old flat-screen shows."
Reggie winced; that hadn't been what he'd had in mind.
"Bergman's Seventh Seal is playing at the Cinema Classiqe."
The closest Reggie had ever come to Bergman was a film course he had taken in junior college; he had passed it by getting enthusiastic Rathskellar descriptions from students who had seen the assigned movies. "Hey, maybe live theater would be more like it. I could get tickets to a nudie show at one of those off-off-off-Broadway places."
Shirley managed to keep the shudder down to her shoulders. "Why don't we just go to a cabaret?"
"Yeah!" Reggie said, with a lascivious grin.
"Not that kind! I know where there's a nice soft-jazz group playing."
Reggie sighed. "Okay, baby, it's your party."
"I'm fully grown, Reggie."
"Boy, are you ever!… Oh. Uh, sorry…"
"Your soup, sir."
Reggie looked up to see the waiter smiling benevolently. He looked down at a cup of soup that had materialized in front of him, then looked back up, but the waiter had already whisked himself away.
Shirley sighed and took up her soup spoon.
Reggie frowned at the array before him, then picked up a teaspoon. "Never did like them round bowls. Hard to get in the mouth, you know?"
Shirley managed a smile.
"Reggie, don't you think you've had enough?"
"Nah. This group didn't start sounding good till after the second one." Reggie eyed the all-female jazz group, wishing that their strapless gowns didn't defy gravity quite so successfully. "How come they're keeping 'em opaque?"
"Those dresses are made of real cloth, Reggie—not polarized plastic."
Reggie shook his head, irritated. " 'S too bad. If y' got it, y' oughta show it." His groggy glance strayed back to Shirley.
"Don't even think about it!"
"Well, maybe the floor show…"
"I don't think I want to wait for it." Shirley stood up with sudden decision. "Reggie, I'm getting sleepy. Let's go."
"Huh? Oh, yeah! Sure!" Reggie brightened.
"Just sleepy," Shirley said firmly.
"Awright, awright," Reggie grumbled, bumping the table as he lurched to his feet. He frowned down at the spot of alcohol spreading over his shirt front. "Well… it'll dry."
Shirley frowned at the upset glass and the rivulet of gin coursing toward the table edge. She picked up a napkin, tossed it on the spill, and turned away.
Then she turned back, fumbling in her handbag. Reggie had bumbled out without leaving a tip.
Reggie grinned, and the car swooped down. Shirley shrieked, and he smirked with satisfaction. Look down her nose at him, would she? Well, she'd find out how great he really was! He might not be much at the dinner table, but he was something else when he got physical. When she saw how great he was behind the wheel, she'd realize how nuclear he must be in bed.
"Look out! You're going to hit that building!"
"Nah. Six to spare, easy."
The aircar swerved aside, missing the eighty-third story of the Empire State Building by two inches, not six.
"Not sleepy any more, are you?" Reggie gloated.
"No, but I'm getting a headache you wouldn't believe! Reggie, please put the car back on computer pilot!"
"That old lady?" Reggie made a rude noise. "You can't stay on comp if you wanna have fun!"
"If I wanted a variable-grav ride, I'd go to Coney Island," Shirley moaned.
"Aw, come on." Reggie nosed down and went into a power dive. "Driving's fun."
Shirley screeched and clawed the upholstery, rigid as an icicle.
"Oh, all right!" Reggie leveled off, pouting.
"Thank Heaven!" Shirley went half-limp. "Reggie, please put me down! Or find me an airsick bag, fast!"
"Hey, no! The upholstery's brand new!"
"I'm not going to have much choice about it," Shirley groaned.
"Oh, all right, all right!" Disgusted, Reggie slowed the car and started a sedate descent. Shirley went the other half limp, breathing in slow, steady gasps. "I… never… want to go… through something like that… again!"
"No chance you will, the way this date is going," Reggie muttered to himself as he watched a police car swoop by overhead. "Wonder what's the matter with him?"
"Oh, just after a drunk driver, probably." Shirley took a deep breath and sat up straight as the car gently grounded. "Are we down yet?"
"We are in contact with the earth's surface," the computer assured her, "or, at least, the pavement over it."
"Good." Shirley lurched up, grabbing the manual door handle and hauling it back.
"Hey! Whatcha doing?" Reggie protested.
"I," Shirley answered, "am getting out."
"Silly dumb broad." Reggie huddled in the corner of the seat, glowering at the instrument display across from him, sipping another martini. The instrument cluster was beginning to seem kind of removed, but that was okay—the alcohol was beginning to lift him from the funk the evening had put him in. "What does she know, anyway?"
"She has had a liberal arts education," the computer replied. "Oh, shut up!" Reggie growled. "Who asked you, anyway?" The computer weighed the command to "Shut up," decided from the context that it was an order to be silent, weighed the order against the direct question that followed it, decided from the context that the question had been rhetorical, and wisely decided to remain silent.
"Doesn't know what a real man is like," Reggie grumbled. "All she knows is those knitting little preppies." He scowled at the memory of what one of those preppies had done to him during a wrestling match, and what another one had done when Reggie took a swing at him. "Cheaters, every one of 'em."
The computer reviewed its data bank of irrational human behavior, concluded that its owner needed to talk in order to relieve emotional stress, and would therefore appreciate leading questions. "They are deficient in a sense of fair play?"
"Boy, you can say that again! Always sneering at you, making fun of you by asking questions about things you don't know nothing about! 'What did you think of that concert last night, Reggie?' 'How'd you like that new drama the Players did, Reggie?' Then talking down to me, only asking me about the league standings and all! Here, give me another drink!"
The autobar door slid open, and Reggie yanked the glass out, spilling as much as he sipped. "Gack! Don't fill 'em so full next time, huh?"
The computer registered the directive in its manual of drinks. "As you wish, sir."
" 'Azh I wish, azh I wish!' When did you do anything I wished?" Reggie snarled.