Post by Damon Thorne on May 21, 2011 7:33:05 GMT -5
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In retrospect, Damon should have tuned out the moment his roommate opened his mouth, spouting the whole idea of an apology dinner for Isabella in order to deal with the past and prepare him for a possible future in the dating world. Brett Michael Garth was not a trusted psychologist. He was an eccentric art teacher of questionable mental stability. The odds were also stacked against him, as every time Brett suggested a plan, it tended to backfire and blow up in his face. Like the one time he dragged Damon to the mall for a game of tag. The security staff were pretty surprised when they had to boot two thirty-year-old, fully-grown (at least, physically) men off the premises with a harsh warning to never return on a weekend. Or the time Brett wasted hours of time on reconnaissance so he could break into Isabella's classroom when she wasn't around to steal his lesson plans, only to return from work that afternoon lathered in more paint than usual. Or the time after they pranked Linsee with the strip tease, and Brett thought it'd be a good idea to visit his father at the retirement home without a shirt on. ... Actually, that one hadn't completely failed. He was only kicked out of the home for the next twenty-four hours and told to wear a shirt next time. Oh, and Damon awoke the following morning to find one of the nurses from the home wearing one of Brett's over-sized T-shirts and baking them pancakes. They were some damn good pancakes, too. Anyway. The point is, Brett was more likely to ruin Damon's situation with Isabella (which was on already on eggshells) than fix it with this "master plan" to get the two of them out to dinner. Damon hypothesized that his roommate's grandfather was directly responsible for the Great Depression.
Not that it mattered anymore. Damon had already made the mistaken of taking Brett's advice. He'd deposited the invitation in Isabella's mailbox (translation: the slot in the cubby perched on a desk in the main office labeled with her name) that morning. Which meant she'd already received it, read it, and decided whether or not she would make an appearance at the fine establishment known as Chrysalis. Damon secretly hoped she would, not because he anticipated sitting across a table from her in one of the single most romantic restaurants in the country (according to their website), but because he'd spent a fair amount of time on the invitation, as per Brett's instruction. The only aspect of the date Brett had no say in (because let's face it -- he'd had more experience handling womenfor some strange reason) was the restaurant. If he felt Damon could be trusted with anything, it was his exquisite taste in food.
The invitation was rather simple, written on a scrap of stationary the roommates happened to find in their flat (though neither would claim ownership) in Damon's trademark cursive scrawl. It read as follows.
Dear Isabella,
I would like to offer a sincere apology for my attitude toward you the other day in the auditorium. Brett pulled one of his stunts that morning (you know how he is, I'm told), and I took my anger toward him out on you. There is no excuse for such behavior. However, I'd ask a chance to try and make it up to you. If you feel so inclined, you're welcome to join me for dinner tonight at the Chrysalis, seven o'clock sharp. I've made reservations. Simply ask the hostess for the Thorne party. I look forward to seeing you there.
Regards,
Damon A. Thorne
That was a whole twelve hours previous. Now, Damon pulled up in front of the Chrysalis in his beloved mustang and sat for a moment until the valet sauntered over to take his car. Damon let him, albeit reluctantly. Then he was thrown onto the unforgiving pavement marking the entrance to the eatery. A handful of couples dressed in their finest attire strode through the entrance. Damon had never been particularly self-conscious, but he did realize he'd come drastically under-dressed in his simple slacks, dress shirt, and vest, especially given that he'd neglected to tuck the shirt in. Oh well. He was comfortable in the clothes he'd worn, and he looked just sharp enough to gain entry into the restaurant. To him, that was all that mattered. Striding briskly through the doors, he approached the hostess's podium and announced he had reservations for two under the name of the Thorne. After consulting the online database (Damon could recall the days when restaurants had guest lists, rather than computers), the hostess lead him to his table. The setting reminded him of the dinners he frequented during his time in Hollywood. The dinners he used to drag Maggie along to. A pang of grief shot through his chest, but Damon quickly shook it and took his seat, nodding his thanks to the hostess. She smiled the same smile he'd seen countless times previous (the smile that said, "You are the single most gorgeous man I have ever laid eyes on and I'll do whatever you ask") and bowed out, retreating to her podium. With nothing better to occupy his time, Damon drummed his knife on the table (and fought off the strong sense of nostalgia) while he waited.
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( words : nine twenty-seven ) ( tags : brett, eve, and izzay ) ( outfit : lookin' shmancy ) ( lyrics : "desolation row" by my chemical romance ) ( notes : let it begin )
