the things you do for love.
So, I'm in a restaurant.
It looks, smells, and feels like a swanky italian joint.
I'm in an oversized leather booth and from my vantage point I have great views of both the [early twenties, doe-eyed, full head of jet black hair, Jewish] man sharing my table and the swinging red door that serves double duty as the kitchen's entrance and exit. Altough the young man is unfamiliar to me, it is the fact that my back is to the restaurant's main entrance which is making me uneasy.
He (my dinner companion) is muttering along and doesn't seem to notice that I have no idea where I am, who he is, or how we've found ourselves here. For a brief moment, I am able to disregard both the swinging red door and the fact that I can't see the room's entrance in the hopes of hearing something in the young man's words that may give me insight into my current situation.
The moment of my attention for him is short lived: the nausea of listening to him talk through a mouthfull of food is compounding the queezey "where-am-I" feeling.
I smile, nod, and discreetly wipe my saturated brow with the cloth napkin that I have been clutching in my right hand. As I wipe, though it's contents are half eaten (I assume by me), I am able to discern that the plate in front of me was once home to a generous portion of meat. It looks like a T-bone or, perhaps, a large bone-in NY strip. I am quite sure that it is mine because the meat is blood rare and, although I haven't touched steak since giving up flesh four years ago, I was once notorious for eating my meat as raw as the chef was willing to serve it.
My head stops spinning. My carnivorous appetite has returned. At once, all of my surroundings become familiar: Matthew's face, the hustle and bustle of my favorite restaurant, the taste of blood in my mouth.
All is right with the world.
This nightmare has just become dream.
Matthew is chattering on about his most recent track meet with the verosity found only in men of his age. HIs eyes are piercing and the sound of his voice is devinely comforting. As he finishes his sentence, his squeeze on my left hand brings me to the realization that his last comment was a question rather than a statement of fact.
babe? are you okay? you look like you've just returned from one hell of a daydream.
Then, that familiar smile that melts me from the core.
I curl my lips into a "I hate that you know me so well" smile.
I'm here now and now... I'm all yours
He gives my left hand another firm, affectionate squeeze. Before he releases his grip I see, almost to brief to discern, a shadow of fear pass behind his inviting brown eyes. Never losing my gaze, he smiles, lifts my hand to his lips, and places a deliberate kiss on my knuckles. He knows how much this means to me: this affection in spite of the the roomfull of people-- namely the middle age couple at the close-enough-to-touch table next to us.
As he resumes his story and his meal, he places my hand back on the table and gives me a wink - a gesture all the more comforting given the age of his features.
I feel the sweat coming back to my forehead.
This wine is getting to me... I'm going to go find the bathroom. Miss me.
I lay my hand on his shoulder as I exit the booth; He responds with another kiss to my hand's dorsum - never missing a chance to make me feel important, needed, and respected.
Like most public restrooms, the light in here is punishing. There is a man at the room's only urinal, so I enter the stall. I don't actually have to relieve my bladder so I shut the stall door and lean my back on it's inner surface, rolling my head back to stare at the cieling.
This is, more often than not, the posture I take when you are on my mind. Like Chistians kneel and count the cross on their head, chest and shoulders, I lean on a wall and search whatever is above me for a sign that this will be the last time that you invade my thoughts.
I spend no more than fifteen deep breaths with you -- ten less breaths than I allowed myself just one year ago. I guess this is what they call "doing better".
On the walk from the men's room back to the table where Matthew is waiting for me, I pass five booths. That's five chances to run into you, so I put my head down and look for the brown DKNY sneakers which let me know that I've reached my destination.
As I lower myself into the booth, he looks at me with no less love than he had when I, just moments ago, left him to be with you. He knows where I went. He knows I went there because of you. And he knows that I will most likely go back many times in our future together.
just let me down easy.
I smile shamefully because I can see that he is fighting back tears.
If you never let me down, I'll never have a reason to be anything but easy.
His tears become a smile.
In a series of movements so fluid it resembles a single motion, he is seated next to me. Feeling his breath on my face. I pull him close we hold on in an unforgiving embrace until the server comes to offer us dessert.
And we enjoy our dessert just like that... same siders.
And we pretend that you're not sitting in the booth behind me, sharing our favorite dessert with your new man.
It looks, smells, and feels like a swanky italian joint.
I'm in an oversized leather booth and from my vantage point I have great views of both the [early twenties, doe-eyed, full head of jet black hair, Jewish] man sharing my table and the swinging red door that serves double duty as the kitchen's entrance and exit. Altough the young man is unfamiliar to me, it is the fact that my back is to the restaurant's main entrance which is making me uneasy.
He (my dinner companion) is muttering along and doesn't seem to notice that I have no idea where I am, who he is, or how we've found ourselves here. For a brief moment, I am able to disregard both the swinging red door and the fact that I can't see the room's entrance in the hopes of hearing something in the young man's words that may give me insight into my current situation.
The moment of my attention for him is short lived: the nausea of listening to him talk through a mouthfull of food is compounding the queezey "where-am-I" feeling.
I smile, nod, and discreetly wipe my saturated brow with the cloth napkin that I have been clutching in my right hand. As I wipe, though it's contents are half eaten (I assume by me), I am able to discern that the plate in front of me was once home to a generous portion of meat. It looks like a T-bone or, perhaps, a large bone-in NY strip. I am quite sure that it is mine because the meat is blood rare and, although I haven't touched steak since giving up flesh four years ago, I was once notorious for eating my meat as raw as the chef was willing to serve it.
My head stops spinning. My carnivorous appetite has returned. At once, all of my surroundings become familiar: Matthew's face, the hustle and bustle of my favorite restaurant, the taste of blood in my mouth.
All is right with the world.
This nightmare has just become dream.
Matthew is chattering on about his most recent track meet with the verosity found only in men of his age. HIs eyes are piercing and the sound of his voice is devinely comforting. As he finishes his sentence, his squeeze on my left hand brings me to the realization that his last comment was a question rather than a statement of fact.
babe? are you okay? you look like you've just returned from one hell of a daydream.
Then, that familiar smile that melts me from the core.
I curl my lips into a "I hate that you know me so well" smile.
I'm here now and now... I'm all yours
He gives my left hand another firm, affectionate squeeze. Before he releases his grip I see, almost to brief to discern, a shadow of fear pass behind his inviting brown eyes. Never losing my gaze, he smiles, lifts my hand to his lips, and places a deliberate kiss on my knuckles. He knows how much this means to me: this affection in spite of the the roomfull of people-- namely the middle age couple at the close-enough-to-touch table next to us.
As he resumes his story and his meal, he places my hand back on the table and gives me a wink - a gesture all the more comforting given the age of his features.
I feel the sweat coming back to my forehead.
This wine is getting to me... I'm going to go find the bathroom. Miss me.
I lay my hand on his shoulder as I exit the booth; He responds with another kiss to my hand's dorsum - never missing a chance to make me feel important, needed, and respected.
Like most public restrooms, the light in here is punishing. There is a man at the room's only urinal, so I enter the stall. I don't actually have to relieve my bladder so I shut the stall door and lean my back on it's inner surface, rolling my head back to stare at the cieling.
This is, more often than not, the posture I take when you are on my mind. Like Chistians kneel and count the cross on their head, chest and shoulders, I lean on a wall and search whatever is above me for a sign that this will be the last time that you invade my thoughts.
I spend no more than fifteen deep breaths with you -- ten less breaths than I allowed myself just one year ago. I guess this is what they call "doing better".
On the walk from the men's room back to the table where Matthew is waiting for me, I pass five booths. That's five chances to run into you, so I put my head down and look for the brown DKNY sneakers which let me know that I've reached my destination.
As I lower myself into the booth, he looks at me with no less love than he had when I, just moments ago, left him to be with you. He knows where I went. He knows I went there because of you. And he knows that I will most likely go back many times in our future together.
just let me down easy.
I smile shamefully because I can see that he is fighting back tears.
If you never let me down, I'll never have a reason to be anything but easy.
His tears become a smile.
In a series of movements so fluid it resembles a single motion, he is seated next to me. Feeling his breath on my face. I pull him close we hold on in an unforgiving embrace until the server comes to offer us dessert.
And we enjoy our dessert just like that... same siders.
And we pretend that you're not sitting in the booth behind me, sharing our favorite dessert with your new man.
posted by brian. at 7:27 PM
