“Why?” she asks. “He’s so hot you’d burn yourself just standing near him.”
“He’s just playing up his charm,” I say with dignity. “He’s a completely different person during the day.”
“Yeah. Completely different,” she says and smiles. Unsure of what she means, I ignore her and watch The Flash leave the stage. He doesn’t look back, but for some reason I feel a pang of déjà vu. Who is that guy?
The host presents Justin with a giant check and an inflatable penis, and he couldn’t look happier. He beams at me as we leave and won’t talk about anything else in the car. He has to drive. There’s no way I’m sober, and he only had three beers all night.
“I can’t believe it,” he says, his body shaking. “I thought one of you would win for sure! I mean come on. You three are so gorgeous! Why the hell did I win?”
“Because the women carried the vote, dumb ass.”
“You’re just jealous,” he grins and tosses the blow-up phallus in the back.
“You better not leave that in my car,” I warn. “What if I got pulled over or something?”
“I think you’d get out of the ticket.”
“And into jail for being an enormous pervert. Take me home good sir! I need some sleep.”
“As you wish madam.” What a dork.
Justin pulls into my garage and I say goodnight. We plan on lunch for Monday, and Justin pretends that he left the penis in my backseat. Then he pulls it out of his coat and laughs, saying it’s a present for Kevin.
I walk upstairs and feel the blisters on my heels for the first time. The booze must be wearing off. I try to take off the boots without unzipping them but almost fall into the wall in the hallway. My keys seem to have buried themselves in my purse, and it takes forever to find them. Why don’t I have a smaller purse? I stumble into my apartment and fling the boots in different directions. I hope I didn’t hit Prospero. I start unzipping the corset when I notice a flashing voicemail notice on my phone. My mom must have called. Checking out my blistered heels, I push the play button on the machine and stand cold when I hear the voice.
“Hey Cassie. I knew you’d have the same phone number. I saw you at the bar tonight and thought I’d give you a call. You looked really good. Talk to you later maybe. It’s The Flash, by the way.”
The dial tone rings through my head and I feel instantly sober.
The man that kept staring at me at the bar…The Flash was Pete.
November
Four Cat Sam and Rule Number Six: Just because he has more cats than you, doesn’t make him a loser.
When I need to cry and find that I can’t, I chop and onion or two. Peeling the papery skin from the bulb feels like uncovering an old hurt; you know something’s inside that will ruin your life but can’t seem to stop peeling. After the skin is discarded, the white body sits on the cutting board, untouched. I cut it in half and set one piece aside, in case the first part doesn’t produce tears. I learned in junior high science class that unstable chemicals in onions produce tears when you chop them. The sensation is impossible to fight, and it feels like you have no control over your eyes. Having tears run down your cheeks unasked is like a dentist giving you laughing gas when you know there’s nothing funny about your root canal. But if you need to cry…
I usually keep a Kleenex box handy when slicing onions, but today I’m empty-handed. I want the tears flowing. I want them to slide down my face and onto the vegetable in front of me. I wish that crying would cleanse my mind of doubts and fears last night brought up. I want to take this knife and stab my phone, so his voice is not just deleted, but destroyed completely.
The onion’s not working. I have a small pile of chopped bits, but the tears haven’t come. I grab the second half and lean in closer as I slice, willing the fumes to wreak havoc on my tear ducts. This one finally does, and salty water races down my face and past my chin. It cascades into the chopped onions, flavoring them with my despair.
My mother would say I’m over-dramatic.
She never had an ex-fiancé call her after three years.
The phone brings me out of my teary haze and jolts my knife hand. I almost slice my thumb open, and onions sails across the kitchen, scattering. Great. I’ll find onion chunks until Christmas.
I put down the knife—which I’d been holding so tightly my fingers turned white—and ran for my phone. Had it been ringing for long? Why did I have the volume set so high? Every sound was amplified in my mind, and Pete’s voice shouted above the rest. God damn him.
“Hello?”
“Hey, it’s me,”
“Alicia, do you have any idea what just happened?”
“How could I?” she sounds bored. “I haven’t heard from you in a week.” Crap. I thought I called her before we went to Throwbacks…maybe I forgot. I’ll blame Lindsey for it later. “It’s okay. You guys have fun last night?”
“It was great until I got home.”
“Did Lindsey win the damn prize?”
“No, Justin did, but listen—”
“Justin went with you?” She is ruffled. “I couldn’t go so you invited a replacement?”
“It’s not like that,” I say, exasperated. If she wanted to hang out with us so badly then she should have asked her husband to watch the kids. It wouldn’t kill her to spend one Halloween with her friends. “Kevin ditched him. It was pure charity.”
“Okay,” she says. “Maybe next year I’ll be able to come.” Yeah right.
“So anyway, the thing that made the night horrible…”
“Someone spill cranberry juice on you? Did Lindsey make a fool of herself? Did Keeley make out with a chick?”
“No, and maybe just a little, and definitely no girl on girl, but nothing happened at the bar. It was really crowded but we had a good time. There was this creepy guy though.”
“I love creepy guy stories.”
“Stop interrupting!”
“Sorry.”
“The creepy guy stared at me for half an hour, then called me. Left a message on my machine.”
“How could some random guy call you? Keeley and Lindsey weren’t playing bar-matchmaker, were they?”
“Nothing like that. They were too busy dancing and drinking. The guy was Pete.” The air hangs dead in my ear, and Alicia breathes heavily on the other end but says nothing. Maybe she doesn’t believe me. “I can play the voicemail for you.” I must have sounded angry because she said,
“You don’t have to. You shouldn’t listen to it again.” Too late. I listened to it about one hundred times last night. “You need to delete that message or burn your phone.”
“Like a voicemail exorcism?”
“Exactly. Purge that dick from your phone. Do you think Holy Water would work?”
“Haven’t tried that but begging him to take me back sure didn’t work.”
“What?” she practically screams. “You did not call him back!”
“Don’t be stupid. I meant before…”
“Whew. I should hope you wouldn’t be that desperate.” What an asshole! I’m not desperate! I didn’t even think about calling him back.
“Why would I call him?”
“Because you’re you,” Alicia sighs. “He’s the only person you’ve ever forgiven for hurting you.”
“That’s ridiculous. I forgave you for getting married.”
“Ha ha. That’s not the same. What he did was awful, and you pined after him for so long—”
“I’m going to stop you and spare myself and your vocal chords the lecture. I know how you feel about him.”
“I just wish you felt the same way.”
“I can’t hate him.”
“Can’t see why not, your friends and your family despise him.”
“Because I loved him.” I pause, and she doesn’t answer. She’s afraid I’ll admit I still love him. He used to push my hair behind my ear before kissing me when he got home from work. “I don’t think I can hate someone I used to love.”
>
“Take a cue from Lindsey. She does just fine.”
“Do you have a new guy for me?” I need to steer her away from Pete. I had to tell someone about his call, and Alicia is the best candidate, but she could harp on about him for hours.
“His name’s Sam Eggleston and he lives in Minneapolis.”
“Sounds great,” I say and slump onto the couch. “Anything else? It would have been nice to know that Kenny was crazy before I met him.”
“It’s hard to tell exactly what people are like from these websites. I just read in In Style that it can take almost thirty dates before you find someone relationship-worthy.”
“Fashion magazine experts can’t be wrong. I knew I missed my calling. How many do you think it would take to make thirty dates?”
“In your case, only a few more.”
“So, does this guy have metal hip joints or fangs or something?”
“Not that I know of, but you can ask him next week. You’re going to the Mall of America.”
“Why?” I love shopping, as most sane women do, but I’ve never taken a guy. Pete stayed away from malls when we were together. He mentioned something about my freaky mall radar and how much he hated Cinnabon. Who in the hell hates Cinnabon?
“He suggested it. There’s a good restaurant on third floor, and we thought you’d like the food. It’s sushi and American cooking, whatever that means.”
It’s a restaurant and not shopping. I don’t think there’s a man on this planet that could keep up with me in a mall that size. Too many shoe stores for one man. And if the date’s a bust, I can always take laps around the mall and get a watch. I’ve needed a new one for months.
“For lunch?”
“Yes. He said to meet him outside Nordstrom on the second floor at noon. He seems really sweet.”
“That’s what you’ve said about the last five guys.”
“You’re too picky. Call me later, and we’ll set our own lunch date. My husband owes me some girl time after this year’s trick-or-treating fiasco.” I love it when Alicia refers to Brian as “her husband,” because it means she’s shelled out at least forty bucks for good wine and chocolate for when I come over.
“What happened?”
“Let’s just say that the kids and I returned home after Oliver rolled around in a smashed pumpkin to find Brian passed out on the floor next to the couch. He was still in his Frankenstein’s monster costume, covered in beer.” Oops. I kind of feel bad for the guy, but no one spills on Alicia’s carpets.
Crave. It sounds more like a weird porno/art movie than a restaurant, but food and sensuality go together. Although there’s nothing sexy about the couple trying to master chopsticks sitting on the terrace. Why a terrace in a mall restaurant? Bloomington’s not that classy, and the Mall of America may be our nation’s flagship shopping center, but why pretend to be a Parisian café if you’re not? I shouldn’t judge this place before I sit down. I fight the urge to giggle at the gaggle of older people wearing fanny packs perusing the menu that stands outside the entrance. Bad fashion and haute American cuisine. Awesome.
Alicia called early this morning because Sam changed the meeting place: work would keep him longer than he thought, and he would meet me at the restaurant. I despise when people are late and hate when plans change last minute, but Alicia said I’m picky, so I try to relax and give the guy a chance. I’m about to walk inside and look for Sam when someone taps me on the shoulder. I don’t like being touched if I’m not expecting it, so I whirl around the almost hit the man standing behind me with my purse.
“Oh my god! I’m so sorry!” I reign in the bag and sling it back over my shoulder. Almost clocked my date. What a great start.
“Wow! You’re really fast!” he says and retreats a step. “I thought you’d nail me for sure!” He looks perplexed to be standing near me. Slumped posture does nothing for his height, but he’s taller than me with a thin, ropy body. He fidgets with his hair, longish like a twisting snake. “I’m Sam. It’s great to finally meet you.” He doesn’t proffer his hand, so I stick mine out and he grasps it, a panicked, oh-shit-I-forgot-something look in his eyes. He looks pinched, as if an invisible hand presses down on his head, and his face reminds me of someone I knew in high school. The boy couldn’t speak in front of girls and had to give his speeches for English class in private with the teacher.
“Nice to meet you too. I’m Cassie.”
“You are so pretty!”
“Thank you?” I say, taken aback. I guess he has no problem talking to girls.
“I mean, your picture on the site is awesome, but in person…” He continues to twitch as if I terrify him. “Just wow!”
After his praise I narrow my eyes and examine him more closely. He wore what must be his “good” outfit: dark jeans, a long-sleeved black t-shirt, and Converse sneakers. By the way he’s tugging on the sleeves I can tell he’s not used to wearing it. I wonder where his coat is, because it’s about forty degrees outside. Maybe he left it in his car.
“Should we eat?” I ask.
“Definitely! I wanted to try this place. I like to try different food. Makes life more interesting.”
“I see.”
The restaurant is large and moody, with dark wood and intriguing light fixtures. A soft golden glow comes from the lamps and overhead lights, illuminating several floor-to-ceiling glass wine cases. A long bar rests against the left wall where shoppers sit and sip cocktails or Diet Coke. The high ceilings were left open and show pipes and ductwork, and the shiny wood floors draw the eye. I haven’t seen anything quite like it: a nouveau riche establishment, where women who prefer the Galleria might feel more at home in this huge mall. Even though Buffalo Wild Wings is right around the noisy corner, a woman might come to this place and feel she’s having a fine dining experience.
“It’s so nice in here!” Sam says and beams at the interior. He glances at his clothes and hesitates before approaching the host. I take the lead and say hello.
“Welcome to Crave,” says the host, a well-groomed young man with a flawless uniform. “Will there be two this afternoon?”
“Yes. We’d prefer to sit in the dining area and not on the terrace please.” He nods and scans his section map, searching for an open table.
“I never understood why it’s so hard to be seated right away when there are open tables,” says Sam, peering into the dining room. Embarrassed, I try not to look at the young host, hoping he didn’t hear my date.
“I need to find just the right server for you, sir,” he answers crisply. I feel awful. Why can’t people let others do their jobs? Why can’t they have a shred of patience? The only people I get down on are those whose performance lacks urgency, people who don’t care about their work. This host probably hears meddlesome whispers from tired shoppers all day. He handled Sam well, and I’m sure it won’t be the last customer he quells.
The host leads us to a booth near the sushi bar, and I smell fresh seafood and marvel at a chef chopping and rolling at an alarming rate. It’s a wonder he’s not missing fingers.
“I roll my own sushi,” says Sam, standing tall for the first time. “I have a special roller at home, and I get the ingredients at Lund’s down the street. I’ll bet I roll faster than that guy. I don’t even have to wear gloves when I do it.”
“How nice.” He slides into the booth before I take my coat off and grabs the menus from the host.
“We don’t need to hear the specials. We can read just fine,” he snaps and reads the four different menus. Who is this guy? He’s shy around me, but rude to everyone else.
“Thank you,” I say to the host, who flashes me an “I’ve seen them all” look. As he leaves me alone with my date, I realize that I’d rather be sitting in the booth with the underage host than with this guy. I take my menu (he won’t relinquish the drink or specials menus) and look it over. The selection is excellent: sandwiches, entrées, salads, and pizzas, but I’m drawn to the sushi. Fresh food always sounds good when win
ter hits.
Sam picks his teeth with his pinky nail while reading the menus, and he pours meticulously over each one. When the server stops by for the drink order, Sam ignores her, and I’m forced to order him water and give another silent apology. I was going to have an iced tea but decided on wine. If I had to spend time with this guy, I needed something a little stronger than caffeine.
“Where’d she go?” he asks right after the server walks away. “I want an espresso!”
“You ignored her, so I got you water. She’ll be back in a second.”
He shakes his head and says, “It’s so hard to find good waitresses today. They have no patience and always forget what you ordered. Is it so hard to let someone read the menu before coming over and staring them down? ‘What you gonna have? Aren’t you ready yet?’ I can practically read their minds.”
“I was a waitress. We prefer the term ‘server.’” He doesn’t look too concerned that he offended me and goes back to the menu, shy demeanor vanishing. The server returns with my wine and I take a huge gulp. She sets Sam’s water down with a white napkin.
“Don’t you have coasters?” he whines. “I hate when my glass sticks to these napkins.”
“We might have some at the bar, sir.”
“Then go to the bar and get me one please.”
“Would you like to order something other than water?”
“I just want a coaster.”
“Didn’t you want an espresso?” I ask. He stares at me like I’ve ruined his game and slumps in the booth. I’ve seen this kind of thing before. A rude customer gets angry with the server for no reason then makes them run around the restaurant getting random things like coasters and never ordering what they actually want.
“And an espresso?” she asks.
“I guess,” he answers and crossed his arms across his chest. “And I want it in an espresso cup. The last time I went to a restaurant they didn’t have the proper cup.”
“I’ll make sure.” As she walks toward the bar Sam glares after her and says, “So rude.”
“What looks good?” I ask, desperate to change the subject.
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