Lacy and I finishing hanging her painting I called Caitlin. After a somewhat cordial conversation the two of us agreed on a dinner date for later that night. The restaurant was Austin’s, an upscale place with great seafood and a decent steak, which just happened to be located in Hampden, smack-dab in the middle of point A, my house in Surry Woods, and point B, Caitlin’s apartment in Bangor.
I pulled into Austin’s parking lot ten minutes late. It was a Sunday night and I’d expected a full lot, but there were only two other cars. Oh, how the seasons are a changing. I parked next to Caitlin’s red Pathfinder and couldn’t help wondering how I’d managed this far without the assistance of alcohol.
Every restaurant in Maine smells the same, like they use lobster shit for insulation. Austin’s differentiated itself from the competition by keeping its lights low and its wine list high. I bypassed the hostess and walked into the dining arena. The last time I’d eaten here it’d looked like a Def Leppard concert, now it looked like a deaf leper colony. The only people there were an old couple in a back corner booth who looked like they’d just finished having a legion fight and Caitlin at a table sipping a glass of lemon water.
If I thought I looked good, Caitlin looked gooder. She was wearing a teeny-weeny black dress that didn’t leave much to the imagination. Her hair was up, a couple strands of dirty blonde dangling past her shivering blue eyes. She stood up when I approached. After a couple unpolished seconds we decided to embrace, or someone did, and I gave her a quick peck on the cheek.
She held my waist for a beat too long of the slow rhythmic brass, neither of us knowing how to proceed. With her heels on she was only an inch shorter than me, and I didn’t trust myself so close to her blues. The two of us parted and we both sat. Meeting someone for the first time at a restaurant is awkward, meeting someone you’ve loved, and possibly still love, is about three tiers above awkward. It’s uncouth.
I mean, Caitlin and I have separate lives, we came in separate cars, and we would probably get separate checks. The key word here was separate, and as Caitlin stared at me from across the table, it hit me, I wanted us to be unseparate. Deep huh?
Caitlin started, “You look good, Thomas.”
I dittoed, then added, “Sorry I dropped off the face of the Earth. I’m not used to staying friends with women after the relationship has absolved itself.”
“The relationship didn’t absolve itself, you broke up with me.” She scoffed, “Absolved itself. I’ll absolve you.”
I laughed, and she laughed, and the black tension cloud hanging over us went searching for other prey. (Within minutes we would invariably hear the elderly couple begin quibbling over the missing Geritol tablet.)
The wine came. The food came. And the wine came again. Caitlin and I were clicking and no one, me, the waitress, or Miss Cleo herself, would have suspected the two of us had come in separate cars. I’d just finished telling her about finding Baxter on my lap that afternoon when the conversation inevitably turned to us .
Caitlin broached the subject, “Are you having as miserable a time as I am?”
I nodded. “I think we could be friends after all.” It was a fishing comment, but I wasn’t certain what exactly I was fishing for.
Either Caitlin liked the bait or she wanted out of the water altogether. She said, “I don’t want to be friends. I want—”
She stopped and I could see tears start to form in her eyes. I knew I had the words to fix everything, for her, for me, and possibly forever, but I kept them to myself. She dabbed at her leaking eyes with her napkin and I said, “Caitlin, I still have feelings for you. I know how badly I hurt you and I couldn’t live with myself if I did that to you again. But events are going to transpire in the next couple days and I don’t think it would be fair to either of us
I pulled into Austin’s parking lot ten minutes late. It was a Sunday night and I’d expected a full lot, but there were only two other cars. Oh, how the seasons are a changing. I parked next to Caitlin’s red Pathfinder and couldn’t help wondering how I’d managed this far without the assistance of alcohol.
Every restaurant in Maine smells the same, like they use lobster shit for insulation. Austin’s differentiated itself from the competition by keeping its lights low and its wine list high. I bypassed the hostess and walked into the dining arena. The last time I’d eaten here it’d looked like a Def Leppard concert, now it looked like a deaf leper colony. The only people there were an old couple in a back corner booth who looked like they’d just finished having a legion fight and Caitlin at a table sipping a glass of lemon water.
If I thought I looked good, Caitlin looked gooder. She was wearing a teeny-weeny black dress that didn’t leave much to the imagination. Her hair was up, a couple strands of dirty blonde dangling past her shivering blue eyes. She stood up when I approached. After a couple unpolished seconds we decided to embrace, or someone did, and I gave her a quick peck on the cheek.
She held my waist for a beat too long of the slow rhythmic brass, neither of us knowing how to proceed. With her heels on she was only an inch shorter than me, and I didn’t trust myself so close to her blues. The two of us parted and we both sat. Meeting someone for the first time at a restaurant is awkward, meeting someone you’ve loved, and possibly still love, is about three tiers above awkward. It’s uncouth.
I mean, Caitlin and I have separate lives, we came in separate cars, and we would probably get separate checks. The key word here was separate, and as Caitlin stared at me from across the table, it hit me, I wanted us to be unseparate. Deep huh?
Caitlin started, “You look good, Thomas.”
I dittoed, then added, “Sorry I dropped off the face of the Earth. I’m not used to staying friends with women after the relationship has absolved itself.”
“The relationship didn’t absolve itself, you broke up with me.” She scoffed, “Absolved itself. I’ll absolve you.”
I laughed, and she laughed, and the black tension cloud hanging over us went searching for other prey. (Within minutes we would invariably hear the elderly couple begin quibbling over the missing Geritol tablet.)
The wine came. The food came. And the wine came again. Caitlin and I were clicking and no one, me, the waitress, or Miss Cleo herself, would have suspected the two of us had come in separate cars. I’d just finished telling her about finding Baxter on my lap that afternoon when the conversation inevitably turned to us .
Caitlin broached the subject, “Are you having as miserable a time as I am?”
I nodded. “I think we could be friends after all.” It was a fishing comment, but I wasn’t certain what exactly I was fishing for.
Either Caitlin liked the bait or she wanted out of the water altogether. She said, “I don’t want to be friends. I want—”
She stopped and I could see tears start to form in her eyes. I knew I had the words to fix everything, for her, for me, and possibly forever, but I kept them to myself. She dabbed at her leaking eyes with her napkin and I said, “Caitlin, I still have feelings for you. I know how badly I hurt you and I couldn’t live with myself if I did that to you again. But events are going to transpire in the next couple days and I don’t think it would be fair to either of us
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