at the restaurant

July 8, 2014 Posted by the writer

“Drinking your own urine is the actually the cleanest thing you can do, it’s like an elixir.”

I’m having dinner with a Greek classical pianist. Another craigslist connection. He’s tall, how I like. Decent style. Dark hair, deep hazel eyes. We’re both replacements. I’m here to replace his ex-wife, he’s here to replace you. But neither of us will talk about that.

“And enemas,”  he continues, even though I’d really like him to stop. Because I only came out for sex. And every word he says is making that idea more of a distant memory. A sheer impossibility. I’ve been here 37 minutes, I wish he wouldn’t talk. He should stick to smiling, he has a beautiful smile. “Enemas are so important. Isn’t it great that we’re both vegetarians?”

“Yeah,” I say raising my hand toward the waiter. He sees my empty glass, smiles and turns toward the bar. Shortly later he returns with my third martini. A dirty vodka martini, straight up with blue cheese olives. Every word the pianist says is making him less attractive. It makes me miss you. Missing you makes me sick. It’s been making me sick for nearly three years now.

You don’t care about that though. You never cared about me at all.

“You know, you look better in person than you do in your picture,” he says leaning toward me for the first time. It’s an awkward gesture. It’s forced and uncomfortable. While I’m wondering if that was supposed to be an insult or a compliment, a server places our appetizers on the table, a red onion, green apple tart with goat cheese and roast beets with thyme and rosemary.

The pianist excuses himself to wash his hands for the second time since we’ve been seated. The waiter who brought my martini returns, he has olive skin, blue eyes and is wearing glasses. I’ve always had a thing for glasses.

“Is there anything else you need right now, madam?”

“Yes,” I state confidently crossing my legs. He looks down at my black stockings and I can feel heat from his gaze that flows down my calf to my six inch boots. With silver buckles on the side. “I really need a new date, can you help me with that?”

He beams at me and his black hair shines, even under dim lights. His hair is pulled back in a tight, short ponytail. I briefly contemplate what it would look like pulled out, tousled around his strong jaw that’s slightly concealed by a tightly trimmed beard.

“I might be able to arrange that.”

About the writer

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gretchen's brain is preoccupied with words.

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