She did seem interested,
from his point of view.

 Maybe she's sick of those artist types.  Sometimes they call the next day, sometimes they do it twice or even three times, but most don't.  He looks like the type who will call.  And call again. And maybe he won't be as boring as he looks.  No, he probably will be, but he'll be someone to write back home about so they know she's not as lonely as they think she is.

 But she knows already she's getting bored before he's even ordered (generic black tea, maybe green to seem a little open-minded?) and now he's shifting his weight back and forth and this is getting dangerous because he's not giving up.  Fuck.  She's looking away now and smiling politely and he leans in desperately because he knows it's all over. 

Black tea.  Earl gray.  He decides against handing her the business card he had clutched as a just-in-case in his right jacket pocket.

She's glad because she just got that new kitten at the adoption shelter this weekend.  And maybe tonight The Hills will be on.

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