You're waiting outside the Italian restaurant on this crisp autumn evening. You apply some gloss to your lips and smack them together one more time, looking around for your date. The Bureau's files indicate he chose the figure of an attractive man, late twenties, with an angular jawline and washboard abs. Chestnut brown hair, tall but not too tall, broad shouldered but evenly toned like a swimmer or a triathlete. Someone you wouldn't mind seeing full time... if not for your job.
A silver Mercedes pulls into the parking lot, and a man matching those features steps out. He slips his arms into a jacket, hands the valet the keys, and strides up to the entrance. That's when you introduce yourself.
Clearing your throat and brushing your bangs out of your eyes, you look up at this perfectly coiffed Adonis. "Excuse me, you wouldn't happen to be Steven, would you?"
The man, whose jawline was just as cut and rugged as his online dating profile image showed, glanced down at you. His eyes wrinkled a bit as his mouth contorted into a warm smile. "Yes, my name is Steven. Are you Heather Smith?"
You nodded, letting him take your arm within his.
"I'm sorry for having you wait outside for me like this." He murmured, listening to your heels clicking on the pavement up to the entrance. His voice was low and smooth as silk, perfect for radio if he weren't so hunky.
"Oh, I wasn't out here that long." You replied. "Plus, a guy like you seems like he's worth the wait."
"Likewise." He said, opening the door for you like a gentleman. "You look beautiful tonight."
You warmed at the compliment. It took you over two hours to get ready for the date, although most of that time was spent reading case files on the man. Learning about his old identity, how he skipped out on settling his debts with the Bureau at the last minute and fled New York City. How it took months for the Bureau to find him again and assign you to his case. It was a shame you had to collect what was owed, but you've done this before and have little remorse for people who don't live up to their end of a deal.
But collect you do. That's why you're the Bureau's Senior Collections Officer.
Now inside the ritzy Italian restaurant, a server escorts you to a table. There are wine racks and paintings on the wall, a man playing a slow sonata on a grand piano, and a chandelier suspended atop the white sea-shelled ceiling. The lights are dim and aided by flickering candles on every table including your own.
"Wow, this is nicer than I imagined. Glad we managed to get a reservation on such short notice." Steven murmured, pulling out the chair for you. You set your purse down on the seat next to you and took off your jacket. "That's a big purse! What do you keep in there?"
"Oh, this old thing?" You laid your jacket on top and smoothed it out. "You're going too fast if you're asking about things like that!"
Steven winced. "Right. Sorry — kind of new to the whole dating thing."
"New, huh?" You chuckled, "Then why don't we start with the basics. What do you do for a living?"
Steven rolled up his shirt sleeves, handing you a wine menu. "I used to be a foreman. Worked at a factory for several years until it closed down. But to tell you the truth, I haven't worked for a long time, what with the economic downturn and all."
"You look like you're doing well for yourself though," You set the menu down, "I saw your Mercedes this evening."
"Yes," He furrowed his brow. "Actually, I inherited my wealth. I figured I would have to mention this at some point to you tonight. But... I used to be married."
"I'm so sorry," You placed a hand on your mouth. "We don't have to talk about it if —"
"No no... that's alright." Steven sighed. "Her name was Doris. She passed away a few years ago."
"Oh my God!"
"It wasn't a surprise though," He reassured. "She had been in poor health for a long time. There was a time for grieving, wondering whether I'd ever be able to capture that spark again. But I feel like I'm ready to move on, with somebody special."
Your face flushed, and that was without even a glass of wine. "Are you... are you sure you feel fine to start dating again? I mean I had a friend who got married after high school at 18 and I can't imagine them not being together."
Steven blinked. "Of course — we were married since high school. She had some kind of illness that ran through her family." He tugged at his collar.
The server returned and took your orders. Steven pointed to a bottle of Shiraz and before long the cork popped off and red wine glugged into a carafe. From experience you know that your targets are easier to subdue if they've had plenty to drink.
"Go ahead, we can always call an Uber or Lyft if that's where our night takes us!" You encourage Steven, pouring his glass full despite his protest. But he slumps his shoulders and drinks deeply from the glass. He gives in. They always give in.
"I feel like I've done all the talking so far tonight," Steven complained. "Tell me about yourself, Heather."
"Um..." You begin, "I've lived here in Chicago for about eight years now. I graduated from Northwestern and got into nursing, currently working over at Cook General."
"I don't know the place..." Steven said, staring into you with his gorgeous hazel eyes.
You tell him a few stories you've practiced in front of the mirror. Fake stories involving sick patients and long shifts, bitchy coworkers and roommates who never existed. Carefully crafted stories that have been focus grouped by the Bureau de Change. Stories most likely to get targets to empathize with the speaker, to make them think they're learning about someone's authentic life experience. And before long, you have Steven eating out of the palm of your hand.
"And that's why my roommate is out of town this weekend." You finish. "Her father just has to have her see his exhibition featured at the Guggenheim. I just don't see what the fuss is about — avant garde is only meaningful if it makes sense, you know?"
Steven chuckled in his low baritone. "I guess I never thought of it that way."
"So are you much of an art fan? Because you might be a better fit for my roommate than myself if you are." You sip your glass coyly, waiting for him to respond.
"Not really," He laughed, cutting into his Chicken Marsala.
"Well, you're like a work of art to me, if I'm not being too bold." You whisper, tapping his leg with your foot beneath the table. He nearly dropped his fork. "I might as well take you home and hang you up on my wall."
"Now who's the one getting ahead of herself?" Steven suggested smugly.
"Do you wanna know what I think about beauty in general?"
"What's that?"
"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder," You giggle. "I mean, society tells everybody how to look, how to talk, how to act. I remember my great-grandmother used to tell me about natural beauty. This was back when you had to work to look nice, not just buy it at the store."
"Or a bank..." Steven muttered to himself, but you could hear it.
"Did you know that several hundred years ago, back in the times of people like Shakespeare, their idea of female beauty was a full-figured woman with pale skin." You continued. "Back then there wasn't as much wealth to go around. If a woman was pale it meant she didn't have to work in the fields; if she was overweight, it meant she could afford plenty of food and enjoy leisure time. And those things translated to wealth and privilege back then."
"Like in that painting, over there." Steven pointed to an oil portrait of a Rubenesque young woman leaning against a windowsill. "Is that what you're talking about?"
"Yes, thank you."
"I never thought of it that way. I suppose in the time of your great-grandmother, physical fitness was considered attractive because of its rarity." He replied. "I mean, there was plastic surgery in the past but you couldn't buy a better body like you can today. Is that what you're saying?"
You nodded.
Steven sighed. "I think I know what this is about. You're wondering if this — all of it — is real?" He gestured at his chest, swept a hand over his arms, rubbed across his hard jawline and ran his fingers through his hair.
"No, no I would never assume that about you," You lied. "To tell you the truth, I've had some... some work done on me in the past." You pointed to your cute, button-like nose. "Not proud of it, but you should have seen the thing before."
Steven chuckled, as if a weight was lifted from his shoulders. "Is that all? There's nothing wrong with a bit of rhinoplasty." He reached out to place his hands over your own. You noticed the long, pinkish scar running down the back of his hand and wrist. "If that's all you've got done, then I'd say you could be beautiful at any time in history."
You blush again at his compliment. Such a gentleman — shame that his attributes have to be collected. He's played his part well enough to fool most Bureau employees, which is how he got this far in the first place. But you're certain of this guy's true identity.
Dinner was pleasant, especially considering 'Steven' offered to pay the bill. He ended up drinking more than you did (by design), and you're not sure he can drive. Where do you take your date next?
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