Before, well, before all he'd had to do was corner the object of his affection in a tent after rehersal and ask her if she wanted to do something. But said something was usually a random walk around the circus grounds, and neither asking nor doing really ever required any thought. Or preparation. Or a phone. And God, did he hate making phone calls.
Frowning down at said offensive piece of technology, he considered the napkin beside it. He was so close. He had the phone number, he had the reservations for dinner made - thanks to Alfred - all he had to do was pick up the phone, dial a few numbers and bam. Done deal. After all, she wouldn't have given him her phone number if she didn't want him to call, now would she? So what made it so hard? What made this something that Dick Grayson couldn't do, when he was damned sure Robin could.
... Robin could?
Maybe that was the key to this. Maybe if he just sucked it up, and called the number, and pretended like it didn't matter - or, better yet, like her answer was going to be yes - he could do this.
Taking a deep breath, he grabbed the phone and cradled it between his shoulder and chin just long enough to dial the number Pamela had given him three days before. And as he dropped the napkin back to the table the phone sat on, it occured to him briefly that she might not even be there. She might be at work or asleep or whatever.
And that might not have been so bad - an answering machine, he could handle.
(open to poisonisley)