Because life happens around the table – an ongoing series of stories.
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The first time we shared a meal together I had no idea I would love you. Again. We hadn’t seen each other in years. I had dreamt about you, reached out, and we reconnected to catch up and eat arepas. It was smooth. There was over a decade of experiences to cover. We nervously laughed and talked about our love for letter writing. After we left there, we strolled through the streets, and you, unknowingly, walked me to another dinner date with my lover. The next month, I would receive my first letter from you. We started dating quickly after and maintained an off-and-on four-year relationship until you broke my heart. I didn’t clean out my underwear drawer when I left our apartment.
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We were eating lunch. It was at that cafe you loved that I never really cared for, but I felt like giving you what you wanted (you knew I’d been working on it) and besides, the soup of the day was french onion. I fed a bird one of your fries and then so many more appeared. I hate pigeons, so I’m not even sure why I did it. You laughed at me as I started kicking them away with my feet. I loved that lunch. I’ve never told you that.
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I had asked you if you wanted a tea and you corrected me. It’s “do you want tea” not “a tea.” It’s not like asking someone if they want a coke. I knew what you meant but, being stubborn, I stuck to my ways. Besides, I had learned it from my Swiss-French ex-boyfriend’s mother, and I loved that woman. Every time I asked you from then on, I would smile in defiance, but I also felt insecure. Somewhere inside of me, I liked to think you actually enjoyed the way I asked it.
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You invited me over to your place for dinner. It was the first time this had happened. Your friend was cooking a feast. When I walked in, you re-introduced us and mentioned that we had met at the end of a long day of celebrating and drinking. The meal was incredible. You paid little attention to me throughout the night, so I drank a bit more than I wanted to. More than half way through the night, I made the connection. I did, in fact, recall having met the friend months before in a brown-out while taking shots at a bar. I left your house feeling sad, and aware of my inability to have my feelings without drinking them. You gave me a candy cane off of your Christmas tree on my way out the door, and I ate it on the L train.
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It was one of the first times we hung out in a bar. We were having drinks, and I felt cool about drinking whiskey on the rocks. Maybe you had remarked that I was. We were so young then, and complete New York newbies. I was telling you about all of the vitamins that I took on a daily basis. We remarked on the dichotomies that lived inside both of us: smoking, drinking, vitamin taking, vegetarians. I wanted to sit closer to you. I was captivated by your awkwardness, and how brazen you were. Months later, I would slip in the snow, catching air, and falling flat on my back. I thought to take it as a sign that you didn’t try to catch me, and the years that followed showed I should have.
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We met on an app, and you told me my smile was beautiful. I wasn’t excited by this but my friend told me you looked sweet so I swiped right. We immediately planned to meet at a bar that week for a drink, which I liked. I hated the back and forth banter of online dating. I arrived before you, ordered red wine, and grabbed a stool at the bar. I saw you pull up on your bike through the window, but I acted like I was surprised when you walked in. You even looked around for me for a second and I didn’t flag you down. I’ve never told you that before. You ordered a cider. Our conversation was easy, but not particularly exhilarating, and I wanted another drink but you didn’t, so I refrained. I didn’t know what would come of this date. You walked me home, about 15 minutes away, and nobody had ever done that before. We didn’t kiss, and I thought it was a good hang. Two years later we got married during the pandemic, and our families watched from two different countries, via a computer screen.
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I was serving you Italian food at my then boyfriend’s father’s restaurant. I was young and hadn’t served before, though I lied and said I had and was completely intimidated to be there. It was a family joint, where you had to carry trays with huge plates full of saucy pasta, and I was sure it was only a matter of time until one of mine ended up on the floor and I would be mortified, and probably fired. You and your trophy wife had been at the table for a while, and your plate had one bite of food left on it. I went to pick it up, and you yelled at me, saying that I should never take something from someone’s table without asking. I was so embarrassed I went into the bathroom stall and cried. In all of my many serving years to follow, I’d think of you every time I went to take a dish. I wonder if you’ve ever remembered that night.
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