He had picked their favorite French restaurant. The one they had come to over the years on this very same evening. The place had been recently renovated; the lighting recessed and subdued and the décor a shade darker; the murals were sharper and the indoor plants fresher. Diners sat encapsulated in muted conversations at widely spread out tables. That’s why he liked coming here – the quiet, the privacy and the good food. The menu still offered her favorite: lobster gratinee and crème brule. They usually shared dessert, dipping spoons and feeding each other.
When she did not show up at 7 o’clock, he ordered a whiskey sour to calm his nerves. The wine sat chilling in the bucket and he did not want to pour a glass yet. At 7.30, he realized she was not coming and ordered another whiskey sour.
He took out his cell phone and called her. No answer. He disconnected and placed the phone on the table. As he sipped his whisky, it rang.
“Wh…where are you?” he said, wanting to sound gruff, but stammering instead.
“I’m at Caruso’s – across town. I needed a change of scene.”
“But I had it all set up here.”
“Things are different now, Brad.”
“It takes getting used to.”
“If you catch a cab you’ll still get here in time. I’ve got a table.”
“But it was supposed to be like it used to be.”
“Nothing is as it used to be – nothing ever is. Are you coming?”
He drained his drink reluctantly. “Give me twenty minutes.”
He stumbled out of the restaurant, tossing cash on the table, answering the waiter’s quizzical look with, “You can serve the wine as the house specialty tonight – it’s paid for. See you later.”
He hailed a cab and gave the driver an extra ten dollars to break the speed limit and get him to Caruso’s inside twenty minutes.
Caruso’s’ garish neon sign was visible for two blocks; a glitzy, busy grill that was the in-place for city professionals and the occasional movie star. He’d been here once with the guys from the office. Amidst exotic daiquiris and jarring music that increased his blood pressure, he had gouged on Caruso’s signature steak, which in turn raised his heart pump a few more notches. And the brazen waiter even pointed out that the tip had been below the expected twenty percent.
Tonight the music was a kind of jazz, heavy metallic stuff that he couldn’t understand. The entrance had a line up with a sign saying “30 to 45 minute wait”; yet diners hung around nursing drinks at the bar. She was over at a small table by the window, just enough to squeeze in two (and he’d just vacated one for four at the French place). Inching past packed tables and waiters rushing by with steaming dishes, he caught his breath as he neared.
Her hair was cut short and dyed ash blonde to hide the gray streaks. She was wearing a dark blue suit and round earrings he’d never seen on her before – she’d always worn tiny stud things. Her profile was more aquiline and she’d lost weight, finally.
“You look stunning,’ he said.
“You look flustered,” she said coolly, sipping a pink gin. “Sit down, relax I have your whiskey sour coming up.”
“I’ve had a couple already.”
“You’re not driving tonight, I presume.”
“Why did you change location?”
“Let’s just say that I like doing what I damn well please now. It’s nice to see you, Brad.”
“It’s nice seeing you too.”
