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February 26, 2008
Restaurant Love
Woman at Lilette.
How easy it is to fall in love!
I sat between two women, one obviously too young to be wife or lover.
Flirting with you in Lilette--sighting past my companions--I wondered what you believed our relationship to be–the other, older woman and I.
You kept up the game, in any case, looking at me looking at you, looking away, looking back.
Why don't I remember your eyes?
How easy it is.
How unexpected.
I watched you enter. Watched you move, guided--all alone--to a table for two, so thankfully close to our own.
We--us three--sat comfortable, half finished lunch, half inclined to think about what's next.
I, half through a second glass of Chardonnay.
Others were in that restaurant, business people, women mostly, dressed for business.
You entered in running clothes, loose sweat pants, a figureless, all-concealing floppy shirt.
White running shoes. Hair up, thin stale lipstick, wide useful lips. Back pack! A tourist?
No jewelry.
No rings.
What I remember most are your lips, your hair, your lips, your hair, lips.
I love blondes...among others.
What I deeply loved then were your eyes in mine.
Are you writing to me?
Dumb question.
I smiled at you! Short, shy, tithing smiles; a probe, a plea, a penny in the fountain.
Your turn.
Did you? ...almost? ...there! ...did I see you squelch a smile?
Biting it off like the head of an eel?
Yes! Hell, yes!
In return for my bold move, you gave me an almost ‘something'
I understand, darling. It's about Inhibitions. Waste not, want not.
But.
There were messages.
What were you thinking? What were you telling me?
I sent my message in the clear. Manly like.
I smiled–and waited
I smiled--and waited.
For what?
For Restaurant Love, lover. That sweet old ‘RL'.
Your smile?
Lost in translation. Dissolved in sublimation.
Why, sweetbread, why? Try the anchovies for clarity.
We're not flirt virgins, you and I. We're profligates, habitues, the dining louche.
This is real life.
Restaurant Passion.
We hurl our glances in a broad day-lit, bright-windowed restaurant on Magazine Street.
Why do we do it
when in a matter of minutes we will forget everything I am remembering.
So brief.
So futile.
Why do we do it?
So meaningless in the long run. (An anecdote for one telling:
"He was flirting with me, sitting between his wife and daughter!
What an asshole. I gave him a look of total contempt! Repeatedly.")
Why do we do it?
Because it's ‘Restaurant Sex'.
Not available for take out.
I knew you would not look up as I left.
Ejaculatio praecox...
Lingering behind my two companions, I stopped. And waited.
You looked up.
"You're very attractive." (Did I meet your eyes?)
"I love your lips." (Did I gasp?)
"And your hair." (What pain!)
"Why thank kewyuuuuuu."
Ah, love-love-love-love-love in restaurants. Safest of sex.