Dream On: A Rom Com

Eavesdropping

DEON

The cafe tables sit close together, like houses in an overcrowded suburb. Deon figures he'll be eavesdropping on all the conversations around him once this thing gets started. It's still way too hot to be outdoors on the deck, and the air conditioning isn't strong enough to control the summer heat. Five huge tubs of ice cream line the serving table.

A woman in her twenties wearing shorts and a bright blouse approaches him. "Deon?" He nods. "Go get yourself a dish of ice cream. You can sit at that table with Phoebe."

She must be helping Phoebe run this shebang. He hurries over to look at the flavor selections. The din of thirty or forty couples bounces off the walls, and he's tempted to chuck it all, retreat to the deck, down the stairs and across the street to the beach, three hundred yards from the restaurant. He parked his car farther away than the inviting little beach.

"What flavor would you like?" says the server, impossibly young, skin plump as...well, he's not sure of an apt metaphor at this moment.

He's supposed to be giving up sugar. His daughter, staying with her grandparents in San Fran for the summer, has been on his case, and here he is at an ice cream social.

Phoebe walks over carrying her cup of deep chocolate. It has a strange blue hue. Blue hue, blue hue, his mind repeats.

"Hurry up, we're starting in two minutes. Where's your friend?" Phoebe looks rattled, as if things aren't going her way. She appreciates organization.

"What friend? Why didn't you use the main dining room? It's so noisy and squished in here." He's whining, but he doesn't care.

"He'll have the Chocolate Volcano," she directs the server. "Nuts and fudge and dark chocolate, you'll love it." The server fills his cup, the ice cream fast-melting, the way Deon likes it. His mouth waters.

A waiter comes out and covers the tubs, hauling them back to the kitchen. The bell rings.

He and Phoebe thread through the crowd toward the single empty table in the corner, balancing on their toes to squeeze between chairs of unmoving, oblivious couples deep in conversation. Voices raise against one another, snatches of dialogue launched at them like missiles.

"I want companionship, but sex is still important to me. Is it important to you?"

"Do you own or rent?"

"Your nametag says Doctor Tad? What kind of doctor are you?"

"I pay off my credit card every month like clockwork. You have much credit card debt?"

"How much does a man in your profession make, say, monthly?"

He wonders if Phoebe is paying attention. She holds her cup of ice cream high over her head, and mouths a word he fails to catch.

"My son lives at home for the moment. He's thinking of graduate school."

"How old is your son?"

"Thirty-nine."

A guy wearing a tan jacket pulls out a flask and offers it to a woman in a green off-the-shoulder dress. A glance around the restaurant affirms his hunch that the women are way more jacked-up than the men, many of them dressed down in shorts and Hawaiian-style shirts that hide big bellies.

When they finally sit, Deon looks at Phoebe's tense face. "So, what's going on? Your parents fighting?"

"I never should have pushed them to do this. They're not ice cream people, and my father likes to be in control. My mom likes to show off her cooking." She breathes out a large sigh. "Besides, she feels sorry for these people." Phoebe waves her spoon at the crowd.

"Sorry? How?"

"Divorced people. Older and still looking. It's a Greek tragedy, at least in her eyes."

"I'm not divorced. But my story is a tragedy." He gives her a wan smile to lighten his comment.

"You're the exception. I had to twist your arm to come here. Anything that smacks of dating and you bolt."

"Listen," and he leans closer to Phoebe, "open the bar later."

The bell rings. All around them women are switching tables, or trying to switch, confused that there is no clear traffic pattern. "You'll get plenty of people who'll stay on for drinks, maybe dinner."

Phoebe stands and pats him on the shoulder. "Sit there and look pretty," she says. "The women will flock over." He wrinkles his face in fake hilarity after her retreating back.

There's only one woman he wants to flock over, as Phoebe puts it. And some smug smiling guy in a sports coat with a flask is offering to punch up her ice cream.

Deon's got his work cut out for him if he wants to capture Lucy's attention.