Now I’m dying to know. I tilt my head in a manner that’s intended to convey openness and warmth. He takes the bait:

“I’d just found out my fiancée was pregnant and I wasn’t the dad.”

My mouth falls open.

“Want to guess who the dad is?” he says, loudly.

“I . . . I’m so sorry—”

“Yoga Doug. YOGA DOUG. And who can afford therapy, right? I mean, I was actually considering starting an anonymous Twitter account so I could air out my grievances into the void. You know, for free.”

I almost smile despite myself. “That sucks. Yoga Doug sounds like a Yoga Douche. Still doesn’t excuse your behavior toward a stranger, but I understand it better . . .”

“What about your behavior?” he protests. “Demanding way more than your allotment of snacks? Ordering me around like you owned the place? What was that all about?”

I was hangry and I hate it here would sound pathetic, especially in contrast to what he’d been dealing with that day, so I shrug, which is very mature of me.

“Like I said, I’m in a better mood today,” I say. “As it turns out, some New Yorkers are extremely thoughtful. None of the ones at this table, mind you, but—a new friend, he, um, showed me around and gave me some advice on great restaurants. Really took the time to think about what I might like.”

Minimal Bluff. But who cares, it’s not like I’ll ever be talking to Miles again. Barring another flash flood, perhaps, but even then, I’ll think twice.

“A friend?” he repeats. “Or a ‘friend’ trying to take advantage of your naïve transplant status from Swamptown, USA?”

What on earth is he babbling about? “Swamptown? Where is it you think I’m from?”

And why has he formed an opinion about it either way?

He leans back in his chair. “If I had to guess, I’d say Florida.”

I gasp. “Get out.” I point to the door. “I rescind your invitation.”

He stands, stunned. “What did I . . . ?”

“Sit down.”

He does, looking perplexed. “To be fair, your outfit’s a little—eccentric . . . to put it mildly . . .”

“Who cares about my outfit! Do I look like someone who would tolerate hanging chads?”

“That’s a little before our time.”

“It’s still a topic of conversation among my friends.”

“How old are your friends?”

“Ancient. For the record, I’m from California,” I sniff proudly. “The Best Coast.”

“That’s debatable. Aren’t you about two seconds from falling into the sea or getting blown up by nuclear weapons? In between throwing yourselves bloated award shows every weekend, that is.” He does an obnoxious little song-and-dance from his seat. “ ‘Hooray for Hollywood’ . . .”

“You seem nice, Miles,” I snap. “This has been oodles of fun.”