i show up at the restaurant and he's sitting there, alone of course, looking dignified for some reason. he perks at my presence and, upon my arrival at the table, produces two perfect peach roses - my favorite - and a James Dean biography on dvd.
ladies and gentlemen, i think he's trying to woo me.
we split dinner: baked goat cheese on crostini and lamb with the best goddamn au gratin potatoes i've ever had. dessert is a whipped creamy concoction infused with marsala wine. he feeds me a slice of strawberry dotted with the delectable dessert and i blush and glance around, hoping no one saw but that everyone noticed that i am with the cheesiest, sweetest, most charming boy alive.
though the martinis are swirling around us and the red wine beckons fervently, we resist that poison liquor as we've both quit. it's ruined our lives many times over and it's not worth it.
we talk about our days, our dreams (the sleepy kind, we both have very vivid and relevant subconscious'), the news coverage of the war (it's like a fucking sporting event). we talk about san francisco like it's actually going to happen, but even if we won't admit it, we both know i'm moving there by myself and there's no way i'll ever let him follow me across two states. our conversation, like our lovemaking, is urgent and vulnerable, passionate and careful, as if this is both the first and last time we will ever be in each others' presence.
we run to my car, trying to protect our beloved Camel Lights from the ever-pouring rain, and drive around contemplating what to do until he has to go to work. parked at his restaurant, we talk about what we'll do that night: i'll go to my apartment and watch his dvd and read and clean, he'll work prep in the back and call me every few hours. i tell him to call me when he gets off at 5am and i'll pick him up and we'll go get coffee until i have to be at work at 8:30. he agrees: "that sounds nice."