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and I felt unwelcome warmth in my belly. I had a hand fetish. His hands were big, probably beneficial for that stupid sport he played. His were the kind of hands that made wedding rings look sexy—tan with vein lines that ran like snaking rivers to his wrist and disappeared under his sleeves.
    “This isn’t a date,” I reminded him. “And, it’s really lame that you just told me you’re taking me somewhere you’ve taken other girls.”
      “Right. Well next time I’ll remember to lie to you then,” he said, looking at me out of the corner of his eye.
    “What makes you think there will be a next time?” 
    “What makes you think there won’t?”
    I didn’t bother looking at him I just sniffed my response and stared out the window.
    Jaxson’s Old Fashioned Ice Cream was located on one of the busier streets in Dania. Its neon circus sign blinked impatiently from a nondescript shopping plaza, working overtime to attract the attention of passersby. Despite the bright lights, the cutouts where tourists place their heads on animal bodies, and the blaring organ music, I had never noticed the place.
    “Oh,” I said, trying to mask my surprise. “This is interesting.”
    “Are you lactose intolerant?” he asked sliding his car into a parking spot.
    “Nope.”
    “On a diet?”
    “Not this week.”
“Great. Then you’re going to love it.”  He came around to open my door, and offered me his hand as I maneuvered my way out of the car.
    We entered the lobby and were immediately greeted by an elderly man with cotton candy hair.  He wheezed in excitement when he saw Caleb and shuffled over to shake his hand.
    “Good to see you again, Caleb,” he said in a cigarette chapped voice. He was wearing a red pinstriped jumpsuit with buttons made to look like lollypops.
    It embarrassed me.  
    Caleb put a big hand on our host’s shoulder as he greeted him. They exchanged niceties for a few moments and then annoyingly enough, Caleb’s hand found my lower back again. 
    “Harlow, is my table open?”
    Harlow nodded and shuffled forward. We towed along behind him, passing through the first room and taking a small walkway between the ice cream coolers until we emerged into a second, larger room. I looked around in awe as we slowly made our way to the table. The place was a smorgasbord of twenties paraphernalia. In fact, there were so many knick knacks and doodads hanging from the walls, my eyes crossed in confusion.  “Caleb’s table” was rinky-dink and small, with a lopsided baby carriage hanging over it. I pursed my lips, unimpressed.  Caleb turned to look at me and smiled like he could read my thoughts.
    Harlow began wheezing again as he struggled to pull out my chair.
    “I can get it. Thanks,” I said.  He shrugged his shoulders and disappeared, leaving us alone. 
    Rich, British boys didn’t eat ice cream in places like this. They ate caviar on yachts and dated rich, blond girls with trust funds. He had to be seriously flawed in some unobvious way. I went through the possibilities in my mind; bad temper, clingy, mental illness…..
    “I suppose you’re wondering about the table?” he said, sitting down across from me.
    I nodded.
    “I’ve been bringing girls here since junior high.”  He folded his hands on the sticky tabletop and leaned back in his seat casually. “Anyway, you see that table over there?” I turned to look at the corner table that he was pointing to. An old traffic light was spastically blinking red, green, red, red green above it.
    “ That is the bad luck table and I will never sit there again, not by myself, and not ever with a date.”
    I turned back to him amused. He was superstitious. How tacky. I felt smug.
    “Why?”
    “Well, because every time I sit at that table something disastrous happens—like my old girlfriend seeing me with my new girlfriend and dumping death-by- chocolate on our laps, or finding out that you’re allergic to blueberries in front of the hottest