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“You needed to know my star sign to figure that out?”
“You’re a peacemaker. A natural mediator. You’re just and fair.”
I shrug. “I guess that’s true.”
“You like beautiful things.”
“Well, duh.”
“I don’t mean women. Well, women as well, probably, but I’m guessing you enjoy fine art, music, good food, the sensual things in life. You like thoughtful discussions, and you’re adaptable and flexible. But sometimes you have trouble making a decision. You procrastinate.You overanalyze. And you’re a people pleaser. You care what others think about you.”
“Wow.”
“Was that accurate?”
“Oddly, yes, very.”
She just smiles.
“When’s your birthday?” I ask, intrigued.
“I… don’t want to tell you.”
“Why?” I ask, amused. When she doesn’t reply, my eyebrows slowly rise. “It’s not today, surely?” When her lips twist, I lean back and give a short laugh. “You should have told me.”
“I knew you’d make a fuss.” She eats some more risotto. “This is wonderful, by the way.”
I watch her, realizing that this must be her first birthday without either of her parents present. If she’d been in the commune, maybe they’d have thrown her a party—I’ve read that communities like hers make a big thing out of personal celebrations. But instead she agreed to come out with me. I’m oddly touched.
I wish I’d known; I’d have bought her a present, something more than the bear. But maybe she wouldn’t have accepted it.
I start eating again, tucking into the sauteed new potatoes. “So you’re a Pisces?”
She laughs. “How did you know that?”
“I’m not completely hopeless.” I take out my phone, Google it with one hand, and lay it on the table so I can read out the character traits while I eat. “You’re compassionate and empathetic. Well, I knew that. Creative and intuitive. That makes sense. Idealistic. Well, that goes without saying.”
She gives me a sarcastic look, but I choose to ignore it.
“You’re romantic and spiritual. But you can be overly sensitive, easily influenced, and have trouble dealing with the practical matters of life, to the point of neglecting your own needs at the expense of looking after others. I think that pretty much sums you up.”
“See? There is some truth in it.”
I smile and turn off my phone, then pick up my champagne glass. “Do you neglect your own needs?”
She opens her mouth to respond, and then closes it, her expression turning suspicious. “Are you asking whether I masturbate?”
I cough into my champagne, then have to spend a few moments dabbing my face, hand, and glass with a serviette to mop up what I’ve spilled. “Jesus,” I say, “don’t do that to me.”
“What?” She starts laughing.
I glare at her. “You can’t talk about that at the dinner table and not expect it to have an effect.”
She has another forkful of risotto, her eyes dancing. “It’s perfectly natural.”
“I know that…”
“I mean, you’re not going to tell me that you don’t do it.”