No, it's Mr. Sinclair's sous-chef Maurice

"Ah," a man around the age of Mr. Sinclair smiles enthusiastically after opening the door to find Nicole, "you must be Madame Nicole. Please, please, come in. Sammy is waiting for you."

Nicole was surprised by the man. He's wearing a chef's hat and apron. Delicious smells greet her as she enters the apartment. He heads to the kitchen as she walks into the candle-lit dining room. It isn't like she was expecting. Billy is nowhere to be seen and a small two-person restaurant-style table has replaced the dining table. A white tablecloth is draped over it. In the center are candles and a vase of flowers.

Mr. Sinclair is in the corner of the room, placing a record on his stereo. "Ah, my lovely neighbor Nikky," he says as classical music fills the room. "I thought a little Franz Listz would be appropriate for this evening."

Nicole knew very little about classical, but she played along. "Oh, a fine choice; um, is Billy coming to dinner?"

Mr. Sinclair is adorned in what Nicole can best guess to be a red crushed velvet smoking jacket and what appeared to be black pajama pants and matching black slippers. Nicole couldn't quite place who it reminded her of. She was pretty sure a famous old man would occasionally show up in the media in a similar outfit. It was on the tip of her tongue. The outfit doesn't quite work on Mr. Sinclair. His body is small and frail, so the clothes look like they hang off his body. He pulls out a chair and motions for her to sit. "No, no. It'll be us. Well, and Maurice, but he won't bother us except to bring out our meals."

"Oh, you aren't cooking?" She asks and sits. Mr. Sinclair doesn't sit across from her. Instead, he sits on the corner next to her.

"Usually, I want to cook for you so you can get to know Billy better, so I'm up and about cooking while the two of you chat away. After our conversation, I thought maybe for once I'd have someone cook for us so I could get to know my favorite neighbor even better." He places his hand on Nicole's, and his bony fingers squeeze. For the first time since they met, Nicole was feeling uncomfortable with Mr. Sinclair.

"That. Sounds. Nice." Nicole slowly stammers.

"For nearly twenty years, Maurice was my top sous-chef, and then he ran off and opened Gilted. Stealing my customers," Mr. Sinclair says just as Maurice enters the room. Nicole's mouth drops open. She was familiar with Gilted. It was the college town's only Michelin-star restaurant. She could never afford to eat there.

"I didn't steal your customers, Sammy. You kept discussing closing, and I needed to get out of your shadows. Spread my wings," Maurice says as he places oysters before the couple.

"You own Gilted?" She says with her mouth open.

"Owned. I sold it five years ago to my son," he says.

"He was always smarter with the business side of things. I lost everything, including my wife and daughter, because all I cared about was the craft of cooking."

"That isn't all you cared about, and it isn't why Stella left you, Sammy," Maurice says.

"Shush, Maurice, don't you need to finish the duck?"

"Yeah, yeah. You two enjoy." Maurice leaves the room.

Mr. Sinclair finally moves his hand from Nicole's so he can eat the oysters. Nicole didn't know about Mr. Sinclair losing everything. She guessed that explained why a chef of his caliber would be living in her apartment complex. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Sin... um, Sam, I didn't know."

"Ah," he says with a flourish tossing an empty shell onto the discard plate. "You're not here to hear about my wild days that ruined my marriage and nearly had my daughter, Billy's mother, disown me. I wanted to learn more about you and this fella who's been visiting."

Nicole knew it was coming, but she still wasn't ready.

"He's no one, honest. Why don't you tell me more about when you studied in France?" she tries to change the subject to one he frequently would go on about at previous dinners.

After a pause, the distraction seemed to work as Mr. Sinclair started to talk about studying in France. But Nicole quickly realized this would be a different type of story because the 76-year-old started with, "well, Billy isn't here, so I can be more open about the nightlife in Paris in the late-60s. I think a girl like you will appreciate this story."

He begins telling the tale when Maurice comes in to serve the duck. "Oh Lord, Sammy, you're going to tell this poor girl about the nights at Le Renard Roux? Remember how we used to feel about resting on glory days? Young lady, I plead the fifth. Anything this repressed perv says about me is slander and lies."

Mr. Sinclair's face usually holds a soft smile. She always felt it hid a hint of loneliness because it would always get a little brighter when they ran into one another around the complex. Mr. Sinclair replies, "never mind him. He was always jealous back in those days."

"Okay, Sammy, whatever you need to say to impress the girl. As usual," Maurice says, heading back into the kitchen.

As they eat, Mr. Sinclair does most of the talking. Nicole is shocked. He always seemed like such a sweet old man, but the story he weaves is filled with LSD, visits to the La Renard Roux, which, it turns out, used to be a Parisian sex club, and his list of "conquests." His language is crude, and he uses out-of-date slang that's often considered offensive these days. And as he goes on he gets visibly animated, which makes some of his usual senior eating issues even more challenging. There's spittle that lands on her plate, occasional drool that he wipes with his sleeve, and he needs to pause to adjust his dentures on at least two occasions. He doesn't seem to notice any of this as he's so caught up in finally being able to talk about what a deviant stud he was in the 60s. "So you see, Nikky, my old pecker is well-skilled in treating the young hens well." He licks his wrinkled lips. "I shared my story, so now you must do your old granddad the respect of sharing yours." He licks his fingers and then grabs her hand. She can feel the moisture of his saliva on her skin. Mr. Sinclair never grossed her out in the past, but now, she's disgusted. Why would he call himself her 'old granddad'? That's straight-up creepy. "Over dessert, I want to know what's going on with that older man who leaves your apartment at odd hours, hangs out in your window naked, and you claim isn't your boyfriend."

"I need to pee," Nicole says, leaving to the bathroom. She does need to pee, but she also needs to call up Discord on her mobile and get advice.

"Guys," she types, "I think the old man wants to fuck me. I don't want to offend him and I need a way out. Help!" She bangs out a quick synopsis of the night so far.