I pull my bag closer to my hip as I enter the restaurant on 9th Street, grabbing a table near the entrance and making a chair complain as I pull it out. The green metal bends and I grin to myself as I feel the flimsy webbing sag. I finger the pebbled skin of my bag and find relief in its contents. Plan B.
“Hello sir, would you like to order something?”
I stare at the waitress, appalled by her audacity, and after a few minutes she gives me a shy smile and promises she’ll come back later. I stay there for hours, the woman coming to my table twice again to try and flirt with me, saying things like “Are you ready to order yet” or “Sir, we really do need this table” before deciding to back off and ask her co-workers for advice on how to get my attention. I laugh to myself because she’s trying too hard, but it’s okay because she’s magnificent to look at. I learn her name is Juliet from the busboy. She stares at me until the bar closes and tells me I have to leave, so walk to the movie theater across the street and wait.
I watch from the lobby until I see her come out, the chestnut of her hair illuminated by the early evening moon. I wait a minute, then jog across the street and follow the clack of her heels on the pavement. I struggle to hold in my laughter as I follow Juliet down into the subway because I realize that this is another way of flirting with me. I smile at what a slut she is, trying so desperately to get me to show some interest. I almost succumb to my urge to tackle her and give her what she wants right then and there, on this infected subway platform at 1:30 in the morning, just to put her out of her sexual frustration, but decide that the best things in life are worth waiting for.
I follow in the train car behind and then get off with her as she walks to her house, going by the sound of her stripper heels so that if she looks back, our eyes won’t meet; I don’t want to ruin our foreplay. Once she’s inside, I go around into her backyard. Her lawn is overgrown and I shiver away as weeds brush the backs of my knees. I find the window to her bathroom and sigh as I sit outside of the house that boards the most perfect person I have ever met. I crouch and watch the silhouette through her blinds as Juliet undresses, and I laugh into my hands because she’s so desperate that she’s stripping for me, me, someone she just met. I can’t control how overjoyed I am. She must really like me! I wait until she finishes showering and leaves the bathroom, then kick out my leg aches and walk the 15 miles to my apartment.
***
About a month had passed since we first met, and every day I had spent hanging out with Juliet at her job, then escorting her home and watching her shower to make sure she was safe. We never talked, but I could tell she was just playing hard to get. She was always finding new ways to flirt with me, let me know she was interested. One day, she sent over one of the waiters to talk to me for her, saying “Sir, if you’re not going to order something I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” and I just chuckled at her adorable sense of humor. Another time, she brought over a drink I had ordered and was so nervous that she couldn’t even look at me. I smiled so wide that a man at the table across from me eyed me with jealousy and looked over at Juliet to see what he was missing. I had to walk over to his table and tell him that he better stay away from my girlfriend or I’d mess him up, and then a hefty guy made me leave. I stayed away about two weeks after that and just waited for Juliet at our window. Once she left her blinds slightly open and I saw she wore matching underwear for me to make me feel better after not seeing her all day, and it made me fall for her even more.
It’s getting warm out when I see the big news. Outside of the restaurant there is a loud sign in pink chalk saying “Tonight Only: Dinner and Performance by in-house talent Juliet Carson.” I get so excited that I have to rub my palms against my face until it burns in order to get rid of the urge like claws to run inside and scream that I love my girlfriend. Scream until the whole restaurant is filled with the smoldering words of our passion. Scream until there’s no more air. Scream until they choke on it.
