Dinner...
A breeze wafted across the patio, soothing in the warm humid Atlanta evening. He'd been waiting only a
short time and amused himself with making up little stories capturing the people around him, filling in their
lives based on the briefest of glimpses and completely fabricated assumptions. He was middle aged, though
he still thought of himself as young, prematurely gray but still vibrant on many levels. His attire was casual,
well worn blue jeans and polo shirt, hard soled shoes with no socks that either indicated style or reluctance
to match black socks on quiet evenings. He glanced at his watch as the waiter approached and begged a
water.
At the next table Bruno and his girlfriend Charleste discussed children and gay love.
She was coming. They'd been hanging out for almost two years, week in and week out, dining and
laughing away the seasons in chic bistros and dirty dives as the mood struck them. Or at least, he hoped
she was coming. She was frequently late, but had never stood him up for dinner. Tonight was a bistro, one
of Atlanta's many that popped up and disappeared with the changing of the leaves.
Two tables over, Julie found out Sharon was really a man, and immediately...got some bread? Um...okay.
Some nights they laughed, telling stories and sharing long after the meal was over, plates cleared away.
Other nights they performed as though on obligation, the food going so quickly and the conversation so
tight that he felt he'd only been invited along to pick up the bill. He enjoyed both however. His evenings
with her were the highlight of his week.
At the table by the outdoor fountain, James and Wanda shared notes about their secret plan to steal a
Rembrandt.
She breezed in, her ever present blackberry at her ear. He sometimes wondered if she slowed down to ask
if some was expecting her or just wandered about restaurants until she saw him. She was young, with a
close cropped haircut that wasn't quite a fade and wasn't quite an afro, but that brought out her fine
cheekbones and didn't obscure from the inherent cuteness of her face. Her body was a curious mix of
athletic and feminine ideal, one that men admired and even had other women, even who didn't want to
sleep with her, envious of her shape.
Her phone conversation was animated, as they always were. She had girl connections, relationships that
needed to be constantly watered and nurtured and she sometimes admonished him for not calling his own
friends more often. Her directed meander through the tables left her at the chair next to him and he stood
to give her a hug, their greeting of choice. There would be another at the end of their rendezvous, one
where his mind often checked his hands at her back instead of going lower. They were "friends".
Two tables over Mikey, Fredico and Joe finished up their food, with a full night of bird watching and
harmony singing to go.
Her phone conversation continued. He let it slide, but then for her he'd let a lot of things slide. He wondered
why he did that sometimes, so often he'd made exceptions to personal rules for her. A lot this he knew was
his fault, having indulged her and spoiled her as time had gone by, but then he really enjoyed her spending
time with her.
The Burbleson's got up and made their way out, never knowing that they'd secretly fallen in love. With
each other.
Drinks appeared. The phone call ended and she greeted him warmly, a twinkle in her eye. Her smile, even
with her late into the game braces, still caused him to smile even after seeing it a thousand times. They
joked and caught up, the conversation by mutual unspoken agreement upbeat. Their conversations were
rarely dreary, rarely less than a bright spot. After two years he knew from glancing at the menu what she
as most likely to order and made his selection accordingly, so that their plates would be different. Her
blackberry chimed once and she looked at it and dismissed it, he smiled inwardly happy that he was a least
more important than one other person.
Light conversation, but steady until the food arrived. The plates as always were too big, food piled on top
food. He worried about his weight eating like this, knowing he wasn't as slim as he could be. It was only a
matter of time before some younger slimmer guy broke up the continuity of these little meetings. Their
private jokes and late night phone messages a thing to only be remembered. He would die a little inside that
day.
She spooned some of food onto his plate. Sometimes when she was full, or if the food was really good...or if
she was being playful, she would do this. He half grinned and ate it like she did, smelling the food first, and
then tasting it. She half grinned back. Little moments like this were what made the nights worth spending.
They waved off dessert, she relaxed and patted her stomach in mock satisfaction, her casual tee with
catchy comment stretching in a way that made him want to, oh, where is the check? He paid, as he almost
always did, in one of those little gestures that tapped the concept of friends in it’s forehead... with a small
mallet. In a few moments she would leave, and he would go home, fall into bed and sleep off the fattening
meal and slimming conversation.
...it was a good night.
A breeze wafted across the patio, soothing in the warm humid Atlanta evening. He'd been waiting only a
short time and amused himself with making up little stories capturing the people around him, filling in their
lives based on the briefest of glimpses and completely fabricated assumptions. He was middle aged, though
he still thought of himself as young, prematurely gray but still vibrant on many levels. His attire was casual,
well worn blue jeans and polo shirt, hard soled shoes with no socks that either indicated style or reluctance
to match black socks on quiet evenings. He glanced at his watch as the waiter approached and begged a
water.
At the next table Bruno and his girlfriend Charleste discussed children and gay love.
She was coming. They'd been hanging out for almost two years, week in and week out, dining and
laughing away the seasons in chic bistros and dirty dives as the mood struck them. Or at least, he hoped
she was coming. She was frequently late, but had never stood him up for dinner. Tonight was a bistro, one
of Atlanta's many that popped up and disappeared with the changing of the leaves.
Two tables over, Julie found out Sharon was really a man, and immediately...got some bread? Um...okay.
Some nights they laughed, telling stories and sharing long after the meal was over, plates cleared away.
Other nights they performed as though on obligation, the food going so quickly and the conversation so
tight that he felt he'd only been invited along to pick up the bill. He enjoyed both however. His evenings
with her were the highlight of his week.
At the table by the outdoor fountain, James and Wanda shared notes about their secret plan to steal a
Rembrandt.
She breezed in, her ever present blackberry at her ear. He sometimes wondered if she slowed down to ask
if some was expecting her or just wandered about restaurants until she saw him. She was young, with a
close cropped haircut that wasn't quite a fade and wasn't quite an afro, but that brought out her fine
cheekbones and didn't obscure from the inherent cuteness of her face. Her body was a curious mix of
athletic and feminine ideal, one that men admired and even had other women, even who didn't want to
sleep with her, envious of her shape.
Her phone conversation was animated, as they always were. She had girl connections, relationships that
needed to be constantly watered and nurtured and she sometimes admonished him for not calling his own
friends more often. Her directed meander through the tables left her at the chair next to him and he stood
to give her a hug, their greeting of choice. There would be another at the end of their rendezvous, one
where his mind often checked his hands at her back instead of going lower. They were "friends".
Two tables over Mikey, Fredico and Joe finished up their food, with a full night of bird watching and
harmony singing to go.
Her phone conversation continued. He let it slide, but then for her he'd let a lot of things slide. He wondered
why he did that sometimes, so often he'd made exceptions to personal rules for her. A lot this he knew was
his fault, having indulged her and spoiled her as time had gone by, but then he really enjoyed her spending
time with her.
The Burbleson's got up and made their way out, never knowing that they'd secretly fallen in love. With
each other.
Drinks appeared. The phone call ended and she greeted him warmly, a twinkle in her eye. Her smile, even
with her late into the game braces, still caused him to smile even after seeing it a thousand times. They
joked and caught up, the conversation by mutual unspoken agreement upbeat. Their conversations were
rarely dreary, rarely less than a bright spot. After two years he knew from glancing at the menu what she
as most likely to order and made his selection accordingly, so that their plates would be different. Her
blackberry chimed once and she looked at it and dismissed it, he smiled inwardly happy that he was a least
more important than one other person.
Light conversation, but steady until the food arrived. The plates as always were too big, food piled on top
food. He worried about his weight eating like this, knowing he wasn't as slim as he could be. It was only a
matter of time before some younger slimmer guy broke up the continuity of these little meetings. Their
private jokes and late night phone messages a thing to only be remembered. He would die a little inside that
day.
She spooned some of food onto his plate. Sometimes when she was full, or if the food was really good...or if
she was being playful, she would do this. He half grinned and ate it like she did, smelling the food first, and
then tasting it. She half grinned back. Little moments like this were what made the nights worth spending.
They waved off dessert, she relaxed and patted her stomach in mock satisfaction, her casual tee with
catchy comment stretching in a way that made him want to, oh, where is the check? He paid, as he almost
always did, in one of those little gestures that tapped the concept of friends in it’s forehead... with a small
mallet. In a few moments she would leave, and he would go home, fall into bed and sleep off the fattening
meal and slimming conversation.
...it was a good night.
A story of a dinner that always ended a few hours too early. But then, with a wrong
move...there might have been no dinner at all.
move...there might have been no dinner at all.