The following is in response to the writing challenge in my February 4th blog on hearing voices.
Take One:
Again with the menu. He always orders. He has impeccable taste. We always sit at this table. He tips the maitre d’ (which is short for maitre d’hotel, a fact of which he reminds me periodically, as if I need reminding). He always sits facing the view, and I sit facing the other people, which is fine with me because I want to study the other people. Occasionally I study him, but not for long. He oozes predictability. You could call it stability, or dependability, but what I see oozing from him is predictability.
We are dining alfresco, and naturally he reminds me from time to time that in the 16th century alfresco meant “in a cool place.” It is cool out here, on the patio. “In Hawaii,” he reminds me, “we would call it a lanai.” Well, yes, we would, if we were in Hawaii, which we are not, and never will be. Couples go there on their honeymoons, or anniversary trips. I don’t see a lanai in our future, no honeymoon, but ... perhaps, just maybe, an anniversary.
One day we will be at sitting at this table, much as we sit now, the candle the same, the buildings the same, the stars the same, and he will put down the menu and remind me that this is an important day in our relationship, the third anniversary of our first date, at this very restaurant, where we sat at this very table. Yes, and he first ordered my dinner, and I first studied him carefully. Yes, he will proclaim, a little too grandly, our third anniversary, and I will gasp. He will take this gasp as a sign of delight, of approval, but he will be wrong. His judgment, unlike his taste, is not impeccable. I study the candle. Dining by candlelight, how romantic. Perfect for a first date, a time when all the bright illusions and hopes of a new relationship float above our heads like small balloons that believe they will live forever.
Do not misunderstand me. I am not complaining. But one day I will simply say no. No, thank you, you are kind to ask, but I cannot accept. I will not dine alfresco with you again, or watch you tip the maitre d’, or watch you study the menu. Au revoir, I will say, and remind him that it’s what they say in France, or if we were in Spain I would tell him adios, or in Italy arrivederci, or in England cheerio, or in Japan sayonara, but we will be in America, where “so long” works just fine. And then I will be strangely sad for a while. And I will miss the lobster bisque.
Take Two:
I like a man who takes charge. He tells me the lobster bisque is excellent here, and I say fine. He seems to have impeccable taste. I like how he tipped the head waiter (he called him the maitre d’, which he said is short for maitre d’hotel) so we could have this wonderful table under the stars.
Then he tells me that he has just ended a long relationship with a woman who suddenly said goodbye one day. He chose not to ask her to stay. So I lean over and pat his hand (and notice that he has a really good manicure), and I tell him that when God closes a door he opens a window. Then I turn to look at the stars, and show him my profile, which is quite good I am told.
Then I ask him if he has ever been to Hawaii, or if he wanted to go some day, and if we closed our eyes we could imagine that there were tiki torches everywhere, and Hawaiian music, and wouldn’t that be wonderful. And then I sit back and let him talk some more, and he tells me that we are dining alfresco, and what that meant in the 16th century, and I am like so impressed.
