7 Glances

Beyond work, I have never spent much time exploring Atlanta. I’m looking forward to these dinner reservations, and even more so to getting dolled up for a date. There’s something deeply satisfying about slipping into an outfit that makes you stand a little taller, walk a little slower, and silently dare the world to look twice. Nothing reassures a woman she’s selected the right outfit like turning a few heads on the way to the table.

The host asks for his name, and Ryan delivers it with such conviction you’d think a dinner reservation was a constitutional right.

“Ryan Smith‑Clancy.”

He says it like it’s supposed to mean something — like the name alone should part crowds, open doors, and summon orchestral music. I’ll hear those three names over and over, well into the future. He says it with authority, with flair, with the confidence of a man who has absolutely practiced this in the mirror. Maybe he’s been in sales. Maybe he aspires to be a politician. Maybe he just enjoys repeating a triple‑barreled name.

“Ryan. Smith. Clancy.”

The Italian restaurant is as popular as its online reviews promised — warm lighting, clinking glasses, the hum of conversations layered over music. It’s romantic, yet bustling with people, many of them very beautiful women. One of them catches Ryan’s eye as she walks behind me. His gaze follows her across my backside toward the restroom with the precision of a heat‑seeking missile.

I laugh, because honestly, subtle he is not.

“Your date is sitting right in front of you,” I remind him.

 “I know, I know,” he says, leaning in, voice low and playful.

Ryan is talkative — effortlessly so. He chats with the servers like they’re old friends, calling each one by name within seconds of meeting them. He asks unnecessary questions about the menu, and somehow manages to make every person who approaches the table feel like they’ve stepped into his personal spotlight.

Every server introduces themselves, and Ryan extends the same courtesy, as if he’s the host of his own dinner party. They seem to adore him for it. By the time dessert rolls around, they’re practically competing for his attention, rewarding their favorite patron with a small box of desserts to‑go.

Ryan’s imagination must have been building all evening — he has plans for these desserts later that night. He doesn’t say it outright, but the mischievous look in his eye is doing all the talking. He pays the check with a Platinum AmEx, calling the waiter “my friend,” and grabs my hand as we beeline toward the waiting black car.

No more glances.
Only focus on dessert.

And the way he looks at me — like I’m the final course — makes it very clear he’s not talking about tiramisu.