I tried valiantly to tune him out, but I couldn’t. His voice bored into my skull like a vise in a medieval torture chamber.

Not once did he ask me about myself. I stand corrected. Once. Here’s how it went:

Him: “Kandi tells me you’re a writer.”

Me: “Yes, I—”

Him: “That’s fascinating. I’ve always wanted to write a novel. And I’ve got a great idea, too. All about an actor in Hollywood. One of these days, when I’ve got a few weeks to spare, I’m going to write it.”

And so it went, on and on and on, until I wanted to impale him on my butter knife. Finally, our busboy cleared away our dinner plates. I’d barely touched my bloody rare steak. I couldn’t. It was practically still alive.

“For a gal with your build, you’re not much of an eater, are you?” Ted asked with all the subtlety of a Mack truck.

But I didn’t care. He could hurl veiled insults at me all he wanted. Because at last I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. We’d finished the main course. Now all I had to do was make it through dessert and this ghastly ordeal would be over. Somehow I managed not to ball up my napkin and shove it down his throat while Ted rambled on about his life as a cartoon character.

Finally, I saw Kevin approaching with our dessert, a gorgeous crème brulee. I was thoroughly disgusted with myself when I realized that I actually wanted to eat it. But the diet fairy must have been looking out for me, because just as I cracked open the golden crust with my fork, Ted whipped it away from me.

“Just a sec,” he said, pulling a Baggie from the inside pocket of his sports jacket. And then, before my horrified eyes, he took out a dead cockroach and plopped it into the crème brulee.

“What are you doing?” I managed to gasp.

“Getting us a free meal. Don’t worry,” he winked. “This works every time.”

He snapped his fingers, summoning our waiter.

Kevin, who’d grown to loathe us with each succeeding course, came warily to our side.

“Yes, sir?”

“What sort of a restaurant is this?” Ted exploded. “Look what we found in our crème brulee. A cockroach. I want to see the manager.”

By now the other diners were sneaking covert looks in our direction.

“No, no, that’s okay,” I said. “Accidents happen.”

“Don’t be silly,” Ted said, shooting me a look. “I want to see the manager immediately.”

Kevin scurried off to the kitchen. Minutes later, a red-faced man in a chef’s toque approached our table.

“You’re not satisfied with your meal, sir?” he said, smiling pleasantly.

“Of course not,” Tommy boomed. Now the other diners were openly staring. “Look at this. A roach in our crème brulee. You don’t expect us to pay for this meal, do you?”

“I certainly do.”

Then he leaned over and said, not so pleasant anymore: “We’re on to you, asshole.”