Theoretically, pie shops should be pretty safe places. A pie shop really should be at the bottom of the list of places to worry about danger. But now he was going to have to reconsider his opinion on that, and maybe shuffle the list of safe places around a little, because the second he'd been set up on a date in a pie shop, he'd known it was going to go terribly. It wasn't being a cynic, it was just being a realist. Any date he was set up on was sure to end in disaster, especially one that had been set up by a coworker.

This one, though, had taken disaster to the next level. It wasn't so much disaster as it was completely apocalyptic, really. Ginsberg's been on bad dates. Of course he has -- he's been on more bad dates than good ones in his lifetime. For all those bad dates, though, he'd never had a piece of pie thrown at him.

And yet, that's exactly what had just happened thirty seconds ago. He'd said something (apparently something offensive, although really, he doesn't see what's so offensive about most of what he says, which might be part of the reason his dates go so poorly, but he can't be bothered to think about that now) and his date had not only gotten up to storm out of the place, she'd literally thrown her piece of pie across the table at him while yelling something about how he was the worst date she'd ever had and how he was going to die alone and miserable. Go figure.

So there he sits, lemon meringue pie dripping from his face onto his sweater, and all he can wonder is how many people are staring at him, and whether he has to pay for his date's piece of pie if she'd only taken one bite and then used it as a projectile. Right now, disappearing seems like a good idea, but sliding under the table just takes too much effort.