Just Passing

38. Date Night

I don't like New Year's Day. Just like August marks the end of summer, New Year's Day marks the end of Winter Break. And this is one winter break that I don't want to end. I'd stay trapped in my house for the next three years, giving my kids endless shoulder rides, building pillow forts, and reading the same four books over and over, as long as it meant I never needed to see Steve ever again.

I'm also not a fan of New Year's Eve–at least not since I turned thirty and stopped being able to party all night long without suffering severe consequences the next day. Plus, New Year's Eve totally stopped rocking after Dick Clark died.

So, instead of dealing with the crowds, Tiffany and I celebrate early.

New Year's Eve-Eve at 4:30 P.M. isn't exactly the most popular time to go out for dinner. We probably didn't need to make a reservation.

"Shit, hope we can find a space," I jest as we drive down a row of the empty parking lot.

"Har har," Tiffany fake-laughs, pulling down the visor to check her appearance. This time of year the sun is already setting, and she clicks on the passenger-side cabin light.

I pull into the space right next to the entrance of the restaurant and take the key out of the ignition. "Should I keep my coat on? It's super cold out."

"Absolutely not. That thing is ridiculous." Tiffany doesn't even glance my way as she touches up her lipstick. She hardly ever wears make-up. We really dolled ourselves up tonight: her in a silk floral-print blouse and me in a freshly ironed Oxford button-down.

"But it's such a long walk from here to the front door of the restaurant. And it's going to be even colder when we're walking back to the car." I give an exaggerated pout as I shrug out of my bulky black winter parka.

"Can we try just one night with no sarcasm?" She turns to me with sultry, smokey eyes and raises her eyebrows suggestively. "For me?"

"Yes, my love." I reply with my own flirtatious smirk.

When we walk into the restaurant, there is no one to seat us. I notice a couple sitting at the bar chatting with the bartender, but the view of the dining room is blocked off by a wall. Tiffany stands by the hostess station impatiently, but I walk around the waiting area, admiring the humorous paintings of hipster animals wearing plaid shirts and thick-rimmed glasses.

After a few minutes, a woman in jeans and a navy-blue collared shirt walks through the passageway next to the bar and approaches us. "Has anyone helped you yet?" she asks politely.

"No. We have a reservation. Last name Graham," Tiffany responds, flashing a smile.

After a moment consulting the computer screen, the woman says, "Yes, of course. Right this way." She leads us past the bar and into a large dining room. It's decorated with dark wood paneling, a stone accent wall, and rustic tables. Exposed Edison bulbs are strung from the ceiling, offering dim, romantic lighting. "You have your choice of tables," she says with a chuckle, sweeping her arm across the nearly empty room. Only one older couple is sitting in the corner.

"Oh, can we sit near the open kitchen?" Tiffany asks.

"Of course." The hostess walks us over to a table with a clear view of two men in black chef hats chopping and prepping vegetables. "Here are your menus. Kelly will be your server. She will be over shortly." And she leaves us.

"I love an open kitchen," Tiffany leans over the table to whisper.

"Yes, very exciting."

"And look, we practically have a private dining experience!" she says giddily. "I knew four-thirty would be the perfect time to come here."