He clasps my hand in a clammy handshake. “Christopher. Sorry I’m late, but I got lost in a creative bubble. You know how it gets.”

Actually, I don’t know, since we’ve never met. Is he a painter?

“It’s okay,” I say as we both sit. “Are you an artist?”

As Christopher unfolds his napkin and places it on his lap, I try not to notice how my date seems to be the store-brand package compared to the name-brand sitting next door. His hair a drab, mousy brown to Lucas’ lustrous, glossy black locks. The clothes a poor replica of Lucas’ pristine white dress-shirt and shiny Italian leather shoes. Even their eyes are the same color: blue. But Lucas’ are deep and vibrant, while Christopher’s are a vapid, transparent color and red-rimmed like an old man’s.

But, I remind myself, the package is of little importance. I’ve already witnessed firsthand how misleading appearances can be with my reverse-ogre of a neighbor. So, I won’t judge a book by its cover, and I’ll keep an open mind.

I stare at Christopher with a friendly smile, waiting for his answer. He finishes smoothing the creases out of the napkin on his lap with a bit too much flare, and finally looks up at me.

“I’m a writer,” he says with self-importance. “An artist of the written word.”

“Wow. That’s amazing. Have you published many books?”

“No, I’m not trying to be a commercial bestseller. I create literary art. That requires time.”

“Oh, okay, what do you write about?”

“It’s not so much what as it is how. The craftsmanship that goes behind sedulously assembling words to produce a harmonious symphony of text.”

Sedulou—what? Could this guy be any more pretentious?

Thank goodness the monolog is interrupted by a server arriving to take our order. I had plenty of time to study the menu, and I was set on getting an appetizer and the risotto, but I have a hunch I’ll want to cut this date as short as possible. “French toast, please,” I order. Sugar is my friend.

“Anything to drink?” the server asks me.

Yeah, alcohol could help, too. “A Bellini, please.”

The server jots my preferences in his pad and turns to Christopher.

The next great American novelist is studying the menu, his nose upturned as if smelling something unpleasant.

I watch him, the server watches him, but he keeps staring at the, frankly, limited brunch menu, as if he had to choose the right word for one of his precious manuscripts. After what seems like forever, he finally raises an unimpressed stare to our waiter, saying, “I’ll take the rib eye steak and eggs, and a glass of your best red.”