Cynical

"So, what? We're supposed to sit here and act like we like one another?" Timothy Crane shakes his head, sips from his Pepsi-filled Styrofoam cup, and meets the eyes of the woman sitting across from him. She is pretty, short, and blond, with muscles hiding beneath her beige sweater. Freckles dot the bridge of her nose, race beneath both eyes and dramatically fade the closer they get to the edge of her face.

Customers enter and leave the little diner on a constant cycle around them. Two people brush Tim's right shoulder on their way out, and four bump his left as they squeeze into their seats. The soft clicking of piano keys echoes quietly through the diner from the speakers above. Elton John is belting out the tune of Tiny Dancer—the studio version, of course. No restaurant would have the gull to play the live version of one of the best musicians of his time. Some people don't respect the pureness of music.

The woman, Claire Rivers, swallows a bite of chicken tender and smiles at him from her side of the square table. She's pretty, but not just that. Timothy quietly marvels at the sweet smell of vanilla that wafts from her hair. He likes the hidden intelligence that dares him to say something stupid in her eyes.

But she is a human. The same as him. Humans are never as pure as they come across to be. Even now, she only agreed to come on this blind date because she wants love; she wants to take her mind off work and her failing love life. At the beginning of this third-party planned date, she only said yes to benefit herself.

Good on you, Timothy thinks. We get out of life what we take from it.

"Pretend?" Claire repeats his question, swirling her water with her straw. "I don't think pretending is the best path on a first date. Even if our mutual friend set it up." A grin that spews challenge spreads over her face. Her eyes narrow into thin slits. The freckles on her nose scrunch into folds as she wrinkles her nose. "We are supposed to get to know one another."

Timothy, who had been watching the carbonation in his soda while she was speaking, suddenly looks up and meets her quizzical smile. Something inside of him boils— but not in anger. It is a rare spectacle that someone rivals his love for mind games, and those who do hardly have the grit to stay up with him. This will be fun, he tells himself.

"Blind dates rarely end in true love. Only about twenty-five percent are happily ever after." He nods his head and takes a bite of some fries from his plate. "Look it up. We are just wasting our time."

Claire tilts her head in thought, processing everything he just said. Tim sees the gears spinning in her brain, the dilation of her pupils, and her knee bouncing.

He pushes some more. "You came to find love, not to save my pride by accepting a date with a lanky cyber security major. Humans are not as complex as we like to think, Claire," he whispers to avoid lingering ears from jumping in. "We do what we must to help ourselves. Nobody does shit out of the pureness of their hearts." He points to the television screen, where political opponents duke it out. "You think any of them are running for office to 'help the little people' as they like to claim?" His head shakes, and his black, surfer-boy hair flows by the nape of his neck.

She bites another tender. She chews it. She swallows it. Everything is slow and controlled, and nothing is done in angst. For some reason, it makes Timothy grin, although his lips are currently wrapped around his straw.

"Terrance told me you were a cynic," Claire laughs. "But he forgot to mention you're an intelligent cynic." A chuckle squeaks through her vocal cords. "Smart cynics are quite rare. Typically, your fellow thinkers are just lonely, angry… bitter. But not you."

Timothy intertwines his fingers, rests his jumbled fist on the table, leans forward, and studies her eyes. "The eyes can tell a person's whole story. Movies say it, books tell it, but nobody ever believes them."

"You do?" she interrupts.

"I do. You see, your eyes tell the story of a woman who works in a career field where she is a servant for the people. Now, I know Terrance told you about my career. I refused to let him tell me about yours. I am a cynic with a brain. Yes, you are correct. Do you know what that means?"

Claire shakes her head.

"It means I am an asshole. I like games, challenges, and playing with people's minds. But I know that I am not an outlier because of how I think and act for myself. I've seen everybody act in the same way as I do. Perhaps not as often, but they do." His voice, a drifting blanket of slowly churning water, pokes into her head. "Your muscles. Your desire to point out the issue with cynicism all leads to my initial theory: you are a public service worker." He extends his right hand across the table and smiles at her. "Let me see your hand. Either one will do."

She snickers. "Are you a fortune teller?" asks Claire, propping her right hand into his.

Her skin is soft, but somehow, her hand is hardened. Her nails are trimmed to the fingertips, and although she clearly tries to clean them, they hide dirt. A construction worker would fit if not for the lack of blisters, thinks Timothy, eyeing her palms and knuckles.

"Let me quiz myself," he says slowly, admiring the clear coat of polish on her five fingers. "Was I right so far in my guess about your personality?"

"You were."

"Police officer," he instantly states. "Firefighters would require working hands like a construction worker, but you lack the calluses and blisters. You like to help others and try to prove there is a God out there in this messed-up world. My cynical way of life quietly angers you because it goes against your thinking."

Claire nods, pulling her hand gently back to her side. "Good job. I bet you think you're some genius, huh?"

He nods.

"How does this sound, then? You joined cyber security because you believe all people are liars, cheaters, and self-gaining pricks. You don't actually like computers and dark rooms with towers of empty coffee cups at your feet. But you like to meddle, infiltrate privacy, and prove yourself correct. What better way than to know the ins and outs of computers."

His gut knots. A slight chill runs through his spine, and a headache plagues his temples. She's good at this game.

"Your ability to dance my routine only means I am right about everyone being liars and jerks. You don't learn to read people if not to stay ahead."

"We all have our secrets and meanings for the things we do. But we're not all bad for it," Claire says, eating her last fry.

Timothy leans back in the seat, staring at Claire with gentle brown eyes. So far, he is losing. Everything he says, she has a retort. Every time he is right about her, she is right about him. Terrance picked well.

Leaning back and cracking his spine on the backrest, Tim sits upright and smiles. "Time for a change of topic. Why do you think our good friend Terrance set this up? I don't believe the great scholar wants to help his friends find love."

"No?" Claire quizzically asks, leaning closer to Timothy and lowering her voice. What is your theory?"

Tim squints and reads her emotions. They tell the story she will never tell. "What was your childhood like?"

"Didn't you ask about-"

"I did," he snickers. "But I need to know more about you to answer my theory. I think I already know, however."

"Then tell me."

"Happily. Two parents and thousands of lovers are divided between the two. Dad cheated; Mom didn't want a divorce, so she found love in strange places, too. Neither of them wanted their kid to suffer the humiliation or the negative thoughts that stem from separating. So, they cheated, smiled at dinner and school plays, and even graduation."

Claire's face tightens, and her cheeks turn into roses.

"I figured," Timothy says, deepening his voice and rolling his eyes. "I actually told you my story just now. And by mere coincidence, it told yours."

"I- what?" Claire, sounding interested and floored, is nearly out of her seat.

"Good thing you are not a detective, Miss. Rivers. Terrance is a psychology major going for his doctorate. He is in school and loves seeing the interactions of socialites like us," sarcastically says Tim. "You and I, this whole blind date thing…" he laughs heartily and pulls his phone from his pocket. "A test."

He flips through all the tabs on his screen and listens to Claire talk about what an asshole Terrance is, how much of a blind wanderer she had been. When she is done, Timothy tosses his phone across the table. It lands loudly, and Claire glances at it under the diner's lights.

"What is this?" she asks, sounding surprised and a little cautious.

"Our way to ruin his results."

Cradling the phone in her hand, Claire smiles. "This is a new contacts page."

"It is. We were never meant to break the statistic and go on another date."

Typing, she asks, "Friday at seven? I like the movies."

He nods. "And my thoughts on mankind remain true." Timothy stands and takes his phone, stands by Claire while she gathers her coat, and walks her outside. Once they are standing under the falling snow, he repeats himself and elaborates further. "Terrance did this for him. I got your number for me. And the next date is doing what you like. Self-gain, Miss. Rivers. It drives us all."

Claire squints her eyes and bends her lips into a soft smile, "I see it as mutual gain while helping others. Don't worry, I'll break that attitude. If not, you won't see a third date."

"Stay safe, Claire," says Timothy, shaking her hand and walking away into the snowy night.

What a lovely woman. She could possibly change me if she tried hard enough. But even then, she'd only change me to benefit her happiness. Laughing at the fact of humanity, Timothy disappears into the dark and snowy night.

Cynical as always, Timothy Crane ponders the benefits of love.