More Writing

I guess I'm just going to post a bunch of these now that I've started...But here is another, in no linear order, sorry guys.

This restaurant sucks more than I remember, but you insisted we meet here. I didn’t like this place then, and I still don’t like it now. It’s near the old hostel you crashed at when one of your flights brought you into town. It was convenient, like so many other things. I never had the chance to tell you that I hated it, and I didn’t think it would be right to spring on you now. There’s just something about this place. Possibly, it’s the ugly brown striped walls or the menu with the cartoon clown chef on the front. Or maybe it’s just the name: Mario’s.

This restaurant isn’t even Italian.

You finally arrive, and the guilty feelings dampen my mood. I was now beyond simple agitation. Everything had transformed into absolute disgust. You carry a cane, and not for looks. I loathe the way you lean greatly on the engraved metal handle. Your once confident strut is now a skewed gait. Your left knee is encased in a tight brace. It’s only temporary, but I still find myself judging the way you hobble into the restaurant. You shouldn’t have let him drive you around in his fancy, jackass mobile.

It’s all his fault. He ruins everything.

I refuse to rise when you make it to the table, but I greet you with a soft hello, in the whispery tone of my voice that you claimed to like the most. You had once called it my sultry voice. We sit in thick silence as you glance at the menu. My patience is already thinning.

Just decide already.

The air is congested with scents. I know yours, instinctively; something that makes you uniquely David. Yet, something seems different. You smell unfamiliar. I can only guess it’s what he smells like, and it lingers about you as you pause to examine the menu. You always get the same thing: French onion soup and a small house salad. Yet, you continue to glare at the menu as if it has decided to change, without you knowing, in the last few years.

No decision.

Instead of picking your food, you ask how I’ve been doing. I want to tell you I lost my old job, and couch surfed for almost a year. I want to say that I’ve wound up working at one of those seedy clubs down on Gibbons Avenue. I’ve partied, I’ve had too much to drink far too often for me to admit, even as a casual joke. I’ve met so many random guys on the dance floor, only to follow each one into a secluded dark corner. I’ve needed somebody, anybody, and I didn't care who he was. Sex isn’t what it used to be.

 However, I choose not to bore you with all the details of where I went or whom I did. I’ve simply been around, and that is enough information for you. You already know the truth, and don’t care for the details. You claim to know how it is when you're young.

We’re the same age.

Honestly, I’m just here to visit because I feel obligated since the accident. Still, you’re just pleased I’m even sitting here. I accepted your invitation, so in your mind that means that all must well between us.

The conversation is broken and awkward, and occasionally, there are thinly veiled insults geared towards my dislike of your new boyfriend. Any charm you might have once had seemed lost on me as I sat there coldly. Your eyes flutter closed as you recant everything to me. Bits and pieces of the last two years flood out onto the table and puddle between us. You’re still a flight attendant.

----------------

“Welcome to Iberia Airlines!” You chirped happily with the other flight attendants. Smiling at each passenger, while half shouting in your singsong voice over the crowd, you had my attention.

I wanted you to know you. There was as strange sensation I felt as I looked at you. A quiet sort of authority radiated from you. And I couldn’t shake the feeling that you knew it was the only thought currently going through my mind as I approached the spot in which you waited. My eyes kept flicking in your direction. I’m sure you could see the subtle signs of nervousness setting in with each step closer.

“Welcome, Miss.”

“Thank you.”  

“Enjoy the flight.”

Yeah whatever…

I loaded my carry on into the overhead storage and sank into my aisle seat. It had been over a month at my new internship and I was just ready to head home. Your fellow attendants went through their pre-flight show and tell dance. I could see you from my seat. You stood in the back talking with one of your other coworkers.

When we finally began taxiing for takeoff, you sit. The lights were dimmed, but I knew where you were. You were sitting next to another man, in your little flight attendant nook. You were strapped in, the grey bands of your seat belt crisscrossing navy of your uniform and shocking red tie. Your heavy lidded eyes closed as we took off; thick lashes cast slight shadows on your face as you unconsciously leaned forward during the ascent. Perfection.

 Stop staring.