Small Plates

It was an unusually cold and blustery day for Los Angeles. He was standing on the sidewalk yelling at passing traffic when she saw him, his burnt umber scarf flailing, like frenzied fists, in the mid-evening air. Clenching and un-clenching her jaw, she walked up to him and smiled. “Hello Chip, been a while.” “Hey Cynthia, how are you?”

Though it had only been a few weeks since she’d seen him last, it felt longer. She was used to being with him almost every day; at least they used to talk every day. A quick call in the morning to ask some silly question he already knew the answer to, swinging by for lunch here and there, and they almost always ended up having dinner together.  It was a wonder he even had the time to date, but he did, and he would thrill her with his misadventures; their laughter lasting longer than any of his relationships ever did. 

He placed his hand on her back as they walked in, and they were seated at the far end of a row of snug round tables. He picked up a candle and held it to the menu. “I’ll order for us. We have to put in the paella first, it takes a while.”

She sat and watched his mouth as he ordered, words forming with the little pushes and pulls of his lips. She thought of what his face might look like as he thanked her, maybe even apologized to her, but she’d known him long enough to know that was never going to happen. This dinner would be the last time they’d ever even acknowledge it.

“I really need to upgrade my recording software. I could use a new guitar and a few other things as well,” he said, finishing his sangria and starting in on a bottle of red wine. “I mean, I’m thinking about dropping serious cash here.” Cynthia nodded her head in agreement, and then turned her attention to the couple tucking in next to them. “You’ve got to try the sangria,” she said. “It’s out of this world.”

Chip nibbled a bite of octopus and sighed. “Just let me tell the goddamned story, Cynthia.” He folded his napkin then continued, “So, like I said, He went to Yale for music, moves to Los Angeles, puts together a band, and brings them all back to Chicago to record.” She nodded her head in agreement, “Yes, I remember you saying.”

She took a gulp of wine then excused herself to the ladies’ room. He got up from the table not long after, leaving the wait staff mildly concerned at their whereabouts.  Their waiter scanned the room as he re-folded their napkins and filled their wine glasses, making a playful guzzling noise to the couple seated at the next table.

As the pair returned and resettled into their seats, the tension between them was palpable. “You really want to bring that up now, Cynthia? Here? At a fucking restaurant? You just can’t let it go, can you?” She scooped a few marinated olives onto her plate and stammered. “Never mind,” Chip snapped. “Say, did I tell you I went to that music class last week? Just a bunch of earnest musicians playing earnestly. Perfect posture, these kids. It was just so refreshing to see earnest musicians playing earnest music.”

Chip went on and on about what the music world did and did not want in its musicians as Cynthia glanced warily at the couple beside them. The couple took the opportunity to thank her for the sangria recommendation, then they all chatted about the newest restaurants in the area, and how much the neighborhood had changed. “I was one of the first white motherfuckers here, okay,” Chip whispered proudly. “I used to get beat up and everything.” Both couples eventually returned to their respective conversations, and the restaurant buzzed with sharp chatter smoothed by mellow undertones of Spanish guitar.

 “I’ll take a flan, two espressos, and two after-dinner drinks,” Chip exclaimed as the waiter brought the paella.  The waiter looked surprised and explained that the restaurant didn’t serve flan. “Great. I’ll take something like flan, two double espressos, and two Montenegros, please.” Cynthia chimed in, “I don’t want a double espresso, Chip.” “Fine. I’ll take whatever your flan is, one single espresso, one double espresso, and the dessert drinks. Also, I’d like this boxed up, and the check.”

“I have got to get cat food. Don’t let me forget,” said Chip. She agreed by nodding, and chose one of the three mostly-full drinks before her, but changed her mind halfway up.  “That passive aggressive shit doesn’t work for me, Cynthia. You were about to take a sip, but I told you I had to go somewhere, and now you’re not drinking. I told you I’ve got to get cat food, and the drugstore closes at nine. It’s almost nine now.”

“The drugstore closes at ten, Chip,” she retorted. “I’m going to sit here and enjoy every last drop. I’ve earned it.”