They forced him into a blind date, claiming that her fetish for chefs would warm her to him. She was described as a Kirsten Dunst lookalike, which in his mental filters was synonymous with “looks like Kirsten Dunst plus 50 lbs,” or “looks like Kirsten Dunst with severe exotropia,” or “looks like Kirsten Dunst with paraplegia.” As a group they went to the restaurant. She came in and he moved his jacket so she could sit next to him on the bench seat. Instead she sat one person over and put her coat and purse right where his jacket was. She ignored him and immediately began speaking intermediate French excitedly to the girl across from her. He immediately thought her a bitch—actually visualizing the writing of the word on the insides of his skull—but his distaste wore off some as the night continued. She was cute but not excessively so: not so much that she’d have astronomically high expectations from being handed the best of everything since birth, but not so little that she’d be obstructively self-deprecating and self-focused. Didn’t look at all like Kirsten Dunst from any of her movies. She never talked about her boring job and she looked sympathetic enough to find slapstick baseball bats to male crotches unfunny. His steak was average. They all went across the street to see Rent and he fell asleep. It was a half of a blind date, that half-commitment shared in varying degrees by the both of them. He went home and cooked a burger for himself before bed to make something about the night go favorably.