Duncan wipes the water spots from the
serrated blades of butter knives, still a little stoned from the half joint
he’d smoked three hours before leaving for work. George silently polishes
forks. Across the room Kilee, angry, but, Duncan had learned, not gay, polishes
wine glasses. Alicia, she had introduced herself with a tiny curtsy as “hostess
extraordinaire,” checks the reservation book. Restaurant time is drawn out,
like the difference between dog years and human years. After six months of
waiting tables, it feels like five years. After a year it’s as if you were born
there.
By the beginning of Duncan's second month he understands too well
the difference between feeling welcome and feeling like he belongs. A sense of
foreboding rises in him every time Mr. Bonini speaks to him. “Please,” he
insists. “Call me Alfredo.” Glenn said
Alfredo had borrowed the money to open the restaurant from associates. That had
been Glenn’s word, associates, accompanied by the marking of quotations in the
air.
Alicia seats a deuce at table
fifty-three in the corner of the empty smoking section, the fabric of her black
slacks stretching tightly over the top of her ass as she bends over to lay down
menus, her hair sliding across her shoulder. "Enjoy your meal," she
says. She spots Duncan watching her. Holding up two fingers,
she nods towards the table.
"She's totally hot,"
George says in Duncan’s
ear, blatantly watching the hostess. “Is it me, or does she seem to always walk
in slow motion?”
“It’s just you,” Duncan says.
"You could fuck her,"
George adds.
"I don't fuck people I work
with."
"That's dumb."
“Have you ever slept with someone
you work with?" Duncan
asks. George nods. "Has it ever
worked out?"
“I hadn’t planned on marrying them.”
Duncan approaches table fifty-three in full
waiter mode.
"How are you folks doing
this evening?"
"I don't know,” the man says
loudly. “We haven't had any time to look at the menu."
Go fuck yourself, Duncan thinks. "I'm sorry, perhaps you
misunderstood my question," he says, his expression unchanged, his
thoughts unreadable.
"Fine," the man says
without lifting his face.
Like most of Duncan’s customers
the woman’s face is little more than a smile, eyes, hair.
She nods a polite greeting.
"Well. I'll just give you a
few minutes to look things over."
The woman's eyes slowly let go of
Duncan’s, like
a hand loosening its grip, fingertips lingering in each other’s palms. Her companion’s
eyes move rapidly, searching the pages of the menu, but absorb nothing.
Pretending to punch an order into the
computer, Duncan
tells Kilee, “Don’t be obvious, but check out fifty three.”
“What about them?”
“She’s my ex-girlfriend.”
"Who are you guys staring
at?" George asks, waiting to print a check.
"Table fifty-three,"
Duncan says. "Don't make it obvious."
"Who cares? What? Are they
fighting?"
"Yeah." Duncan says.
"And she’s Duncan’s ex," Kilee says.
“That’s not Tammy,” George says,
looking at Duncan
sideways.
“It’s Jennifer. Two exes ago.”
“She’s pretty,” Kilee says,
unable to keep a touch of envy out of her voice.
“She’s hot,” George says.
"She is," Duncan says.
The couple talks, though they don't
look at each other. The man's hands clutch the menu, vibrating with every bob
of his head. Jennifer nods mechanically, dismissively, lips pressed tightly
together. Duncan can read her thoughts; she’s waiting for the right moment,
then she’ll say something that will strike at his deepest insecurity. When
Duncan had first met her she’d playfully warned him, saying she had
‘eviscerated’ and ‘emasculated’ ex-lovers who had crossed her, though she never
went into specifics. They’d been at a bar one night and a man had offered to
buy her a drink while Duncan was in the bathroom. Duncan returned in time to
see him slink away. When he asked her what had happened all she said was she
had sent him back the shallow end of the pool where he belonged.
Re-approaching the table Duncan
asks, "Do you folks have any questions about the menu? Or perhaps I can
get you something from the bar?"
"What I want..." the man
begins, looking from his menu to Duncan
so slowly the torque in his neck could pull a boxcar, "Is for you to go
away until I'm ready to order."
Jennifer says, "Just give us
a second." She smiles at Duncan with her eyes, cheekbones, eyebrows and he
remembers why he was attracted to her at first sight. She owns an arsenal of
smiles, from disarming to devastating.
Duncan, rooted to the spot,
smiles in return, the man watching the exchange, eyes moving from Duncan to
Jennifer then back in swift, shuddering jumps. "What?" the man says
so loudly and abruptly that Duncan
recoils. "What the fuck are you looking at?"
“Uh…”
“A minute ago you wouldn't shut
up, now you don't have anything to say," hands flat on the table, slowly
rising.
Everyone within earshot - three
other couples and a woman sitting by herself - looks up. Duncan slides his hand into his apron pocket
and clutches his wine key. He flips it open and slides the corkscrew between
his fingers, the coiled metal protruding like a talon, but doesn’t remove it
from his pocket.
Jennifer grabs the man’s arm,
stopping him. He looks at her fiercely. She tilts her head, her gaze as
unwavering as his, but without the hate. "Roger," she says. He sheds
her hand from his forearm with a sweep of his opposite hand. "Why don't
you fuck him, too?" he says calmly.
Roger looks Duncan up and down. “What are you gonna do?” Duncan
doesn’t answer. “Nothing,” Roger says,
brushing past Duncan,
careful not to touch him, then strides out of the restaurant.
Duncan inhales - a long, silent breath.
"You okay?" George says, somehow now standing at Duncan’s
side.
“Yeah.”
"What the fuck?" George
asks, oblivious of Jennifer.
"I'm cool."
George returns to his table.
"I'm really sorry about
that," he says. "When I walked up I didn't realize...” She raises her
hand to cut him off, and Duncan
realizes how nice her nails look.
"He's very jealous. Has been as
long as I’ve known him."
"How long is that?"
“Three months.”
They slip into conversation, as
if at a party, their time apart only a few days, though they haven’t seen each
other in nearly a year.
"That’s what I get."
He stops himself from asking another
question.
“I’m sorry. I...don’t know what to
say. Sounds like a long story. It’s none of my business.”
“It’s fine. It’s what I get for
fucking someone married.”
Duncan pauses. "You haven't ordered
anything. Did you want to go…” He points
at the door. “I don't want you to feel like you have to stay and order
dinner."
"Hell," she says. "I'm
starving. Besides, he left his credit card." She points at the jacket
draped over the back of the vacated chair.
“Is he going to come back for that?”
“No. He left it so he’ll have an
excuse to come to my place.”
She orders an appetizer, asparagus
topped with shredded asiago and slices of roasted red pepper. For dinner, filet
mignon over a porcini and red wine sauce. She admits knowing nothing about wine
and asks him for a suggestion. He brings her a bottle of 1994 Barolo, one
hundred and thirty dollars. Tiramisu, cappuccino and a snifter of cognac
complete her meal, the cognac the only thing she finishes.
He returns often, asking how
everything is, refilling her wine glass, all under the pretense of fulfilling
his professional obligation to keep her company. He asks repeatedly if he is
bothering her. She says no the first two times, then, "If you’re bothering
me, I'll let you know."
When Duncan presents her with the check she asks
about a couple seated nearby. Duncan says, "Fourth
date. They had sex for the first time last night. They just came from a play
her roommate is in. Before the night is over they will declare themselves a
couple."
“You can tell all that just by
looking at them?”
“You pick up bits of conversation,
gestures. You figure it out, you know?”
“Are they almost finished with their
dinner?”
"Yeah. Why?"
"Here." She hands him
Roger’s Visa. "Put their dinner on this."
"Are you sure?"
She nods.
"But don't tell them who paid. Tell
them they were your millionth customer or something." Duncan runs the card
twice, once for her meal, and once for the couple. They had ordered well, the
total for both bills over four hundred dollars. He places both checks on
Jennifer’s table, then tells the young couple their meal is on the house. They
act embarrassed and vaguely proud. Duncan smiles, only with his lips, then
returns to Jennifer.
"You want to buy me a
drink?" she asks. "You can afford it." With a lowering of her
eyes she indicates the credit card receipts in his pouch. "What time do
you leave?" He has one table left and they’re almost finished.
“Ten minutes?”
"I'll meet you in the
bar," she says, standing, grabbing Roger’s jacket off the back of the
chair. “Better not forget this.”
Duncan watches George, whose eyes are
fixed on Jennifer’s ass.
"She's leaving?" George
asks
"Nope," Duncan says.
"She's waiting."
To her check she added a
fifty-dollar tip. To the couple's check she added another fifty dollars. "Nice
tip," George says, looking over Duncan's shoulder.
"Absolutely," Duncan says.
"I don't mean the money."
He rushes his final table out. “No
coffee,” Duncan says, pretending it’s a question, shaking his head, hypnotizing
them. They say no.
They enter Duncan's studio apartment around midnight, Duncan pushing the door open, flinging his
arm upward with exaggerated chivalry. "After you," he says. Jennifer
nods graciously. The apartment is messy, though not dirty, a distinction Duncan
is quick to make. To the left his unmade twin mattress rests upon a box spring,
frameless, slouching in an alcove once used as a walk-in closet. The doors and
hinges have been removed and the bed fits as though custom-made.
She surveys the rooms, turning only
her head. The futon sags under the window looking out over a small courtyard.
White mini-blinds hang lethargic, yellowed by smoke and sunlight. An old steamer trunk squats in front of the
futon, doubling as storage and a coffee table topped with a half-eaten muffin
stuck to the paper liner, a two-day old glass of milk and a remote control
wrapped with a rubber band holding in the batteries, the cover lost long ago.
The floor is littered with jeans,
t-shirts, two white dress shirts with the Italia logo stitched on the breast
pocket, magazines and two pairs of gym shoes. "You live alone?" she
asks, teasing him about the clutter.
"It's kind of a mess,"
he says shrugging. "But I know where everything is. Would you like a
tour?”
A dozen strides and they are in the
bathroom. It would be almost claustrophobic but for the too-bright bulb. A
well-padded cushion tops the toilet. She opens the medicine cabinet without
asking permission, or even bothering to look at him, and is visibly surprised,
by its organization, and sparseness: bottle of hydrogen peroxide, tin of
bandages, nail clippers, a disposable razor and a huge bottle of generic
aspirin.
“May I?” she asks, referring to her
need to use the bathroom.
“You want a drink?"
“Water.”
Three times she tries to lock the
door, and each time it pops open. "The lock doesn't work," Duncan
calls from the living room. He enters the dark kitchen. The window over the
sink frames a dumpster in the alley. From the small refrigerator he retrieves
two empty water bottles, filling them from the tap and screwing the tops back
on.
When she returns to the living room Duncan is sitting on the
futon and the floor is cleared of all clothing, a conspicuous lump having
appeared under the sheet on his bed. Two candles burn on the steamer trunk and
Ray Charles' voice floats longingly from the stereo, "Just an ol’ sweet
song…" he sings. “…keeps Georgia,
on my mind.”
“Like magic,” she says. “You
still listen to this stuff?”
“Why mess with what works?”
She sits an arm’s length from him
at the front of the futon, her knees pressed properly together, her back
straight, fingers linked on her lap.
“You wanna smoke?” he asks.
“A little. Sure.”
She relaxes into the over-soft
futon as he retrieves a pot-filled sandwich baggy, rolling papers, and a plastic
joint-rolling machine out of a small wooden box.
“God. I haven’t seen you in
months,” he says, loading the de-seeded dope (the tiny pods in a separate
baggy) into the machine. He feeds it a rolling paper than rolls it until the
paper is almost gone.
Hesitantly, a hint of
embarrassment in her voice, she says, “Yeeeeaaaah. I’m sorry about that.”
“No big,” he says sincerely, then
licks the adhesive strip of the rolling paper.
Neither of them had been
surprised when the phone calls stopped.
Silently they pass the joint,
inhaling deeply, waiting for the warmth of their high. “This is one thing we
did well,” he says, smiling, his mouth unable to keep his anticipation
secret.
“It’s one of only two things we
did well.”
“What was the other thing?” Though
he knows the answer, he wants to hear her say it. And he knows she wants to tell him. The smoke
swirls around her head, between them.
“Fuck,” she says, quicker than he
expected. She’d always made him wait for it, teased him for hours sometimes
before giving in, then giving him more than he’d anticipated. She’d taught him
that while he could be satisfied with conventional foreplay and sex, he had a
taste for the more…exotic. Nothing violent or dangerous, just a little dirty
talk. Not S & M, but a little S(lap) & T(ickle). Not handcuffs…but the
tie from the bathrobe and the headboard.
The smoke parts as they move
toward each other and kiss. She crawls onto his lap and he unbuttons her
blouse, revealing a black bra as he slides his hands up from the small of her
back and unhooks it. It falls off her shoulders, stopping at her elbows,
exposing her breasts, her arms bound to her sides.
“Nice bra.”
“It’s new.”
His hands guide her blouse then bra
to the floor. She stands and tugs her skirt up along the front of her thighs,
every movement deliberate. Black panties, not intended for him, slither down
her legs, past her ankles, lace sliding over shiny black shoes, leaving them
where she steps out of them.
The top button of Duncan's jeans unhooks
with a quick snap of her fingers. He waits for her to look up into his eyes, to
smile at him, to kiss him on the mouth again. Her eyes don’t leave his crotch
as she lowers his zipper then slides his pants down along his thighs as he
raises his hips, holding his boxers up so she will have one more layer to
remove.
She slides his underwear down to
where his pants lay crumpled next to her panties. She grabs his cock and slides
along his thighs, skirt around her waist, cold patent leather against his
knees. She lowers herself onto him, closes her eyes, sits without moving, her
arms tight around his neck, resting her ear against the top of his head.
This had been their pattern.
In almost everything they were of
two different minds, but they were of the same sexual temperament.
He opens his eyes, kisses her chin,
pulls her head down to meet her mouth. She allows the kiss, leans back, every
move seemingly choreographed, but completely improvised. Her jaw presses into
his brow - and he leans into her as if trying to push through her, and wanting
her to push back. He surveys the elements of her face, hoping she will look at
him, into him, but also because he loves seeing her smile with her eyes closed.
She lets him watch, because she likes being watched.
Two hours later, after closing the
door quietly behind her, neither of them promising anything, Duncan brushes his
teeth, splashes water on his face, takes the longest piss he can remember ever
taking. Entering the kitchen, he opens the refrigerator and removes a quart of
orange juice, his favorite post-coital drink.
Returning the pile of clothes to
the floor he sits on the mattress. Next to the bed a stack of three milk crates
function as a nightstand; magazines in the bottom crate (Rolling Stone, High
Times, Sports Illustrated basketball preview), alarm clock in the
top one. He retrieves a small hardbound journal from the middle carton, grabs a
pen and begins writing, naked, cross-legged, careful not to spill the glass of
juice.
