We’re eating dinner together. That’s a date.” “No, a date is when you ask me out to dinner and I accept the invitation. You show up at my apartment to pick me up with a bunch of pink roses, because they’re my favourite flower, and then you take me out. Somewhere fun, not overly fancy, and quiet,” she says. “Well, shit, Ellie, guess I need to step up my game.” I laugh. “You do.” “So, how about Friday?” “What about Friday?” I thought the question was obvious but I explain anyway. “For this date.” “Sorry, can’t. I’m busy.” “Doing what?” “Laundry,” she tells me.
