You didn’t
really want to eat there anyway, no, there were dead animals on the walls and
their eyes were glassy. You didn’t want to sit in that booth, either, because
it was hot and you wore shorts and you knew your legs would stick to the worn
pleather. She made you sit in the middle. The table was too high. It made you
feel like a child. You saw the booster seats in all their hollow plastic
grandeur in the corner. You forced a tiny dry-lipped smile at what would happen
if your 22 year-old-self asked for one. It is, after all, always nice to have
something to scratch your fingernail against underneath the table. She told the
waitress you all had to hurry. Hurry to the airport. They both knew what they
wanted to eat and no one seemed to realize you hadn’t even opened the menu yet.
All of a sudden it was your turn and your eyes skimmed the Sandwiches and
Seafood sections. Settled on the Pastas. You ordered pasta Bolognese. She
ordered a Cobb salad but she made sure to say how much she loves pasta
Bolognese. You knew she’d be eating off your plate. He ordered a meatball
sandwich. You wondered if you would ever be in the position to watch him eat a
meatball sandwich again. Signs pointed to no, not likely.
The day
before you’d looked at the world horizontally. Face parallel to the earth
instead of perpendicular. The wind blew sand in your face but you didn’t mind.
Hardly any of your body remained on the towel. You didn’t mind that either,
though you knew you looked odd. It was warm. Three young Hispanic men stood at
the shore, holding their t-shirts at their sides as the tide began to tease
their feet. One of them rushed at the water and yelled an obscenity, it was
cold. The other two didn’t join them but laughed. Their toes were wary. They
knew better. A seagull shit in your bag, which had only been a little bit open.
Green fishy bird shit on your wallet and notebook and sunglasses case. You
washed everything off in the water but there was still the smell.
The food
came. You ate it. When you were full she started picking at the little bit that
was left of your pasta Bolognese. A few minutes after she had finished he said
“oh no” and you looked up and saw she had her face in her hands and in the
small crack between her sun-spotted wrists you saw her chin crumple. She pulled
one hand away to grab a napkin and you saw that her face was red and squished
and that she had begun to weep. It sounded like she might have said “sorry.”
She excused herself to the ladies’ room. He looked at you with concern and some
frustration perhaps. You raised your eyebrows at him and then you looked at his
hands. They were too big.