Sullivan’s Steakhouse, Charlotte, NC
The hostess seats us at a small table in the middle of the restaurant. I ask for a booth, but she pretends not to hear me. “Can we sit here?” She shakes her head. What a fool for asking. He seems let down already.
Drinks: Vodka Tonic (Me), Petit Sirah (JJ)
I avoid the weather, but he bores quickly at my handball story. Why handball? Why do I always go there? He doesn’t play–as if I couldn’t tell. Not much into sports. Not even football, by which I mean soccer. He compliments my beard, says he’s tried several times to grow one, but it never amounts to much. I reach out for his face but stop short. We’ve yet to order.
Appetizer: Calamari for Two
He quotes Dante and takes more than half the order. With every mouthful I relax. He adjusts his patch, mutters something about Myopia. I make a pirate crack, but he’s heard them all before. They come with the patch, he says.
Soup: Butternut Squash
He’s a slurper. People stare.
Entree: New York Strip (Me), Filet Mignon (JJ)
I summon the courage. Portrait of the Artist? That’s you isn’t it? You’re the narrator. He pretends to be angry, then smiles. I knew it. After this he opens up about his childhood, his father, the Church. Soon we are ordering wine, then more bread. More olive oil even. Drunk and talking loudly, he draws the attention of the waiter who asks us if we want dessert. Of course we bloody want dessert! We split a creme brulee, and I protect my half.
Dessert: Creme Brulee
The check arrives. He goes for his wallet but I know a bluff when I see one. My treat, I say, you get the next one. He moves to kiss me, but I resist. I’m gonna take this one slow.
