Good taste

CHANCING IT

 

He likes me. I know it. He likes me. I like him, too. We haven't spoken to each other, nor even met yet but I can feel him looking at me, watching what I order and how I eat it. Let him watch. I do nothing special, just eat my tuna salad on fresh rye bread the way I always do. Off comes the slice of tomato that tends to make the bread wet. I cut it into quarters, cover it with pepper, and eat it separately. Using a knife and fork to eat the too small dill pickle garnish would be sacrilegious. It tastes so much better if I pick it up and nip at it slowly to enhance the salty flavor. Trying not to look nosey, too interested, I pretend to be engrossed in the latest Newsweek mag that somebody left on the chair next to the one I now have my keester on.

 

Steaming hot oatmeal is placed before him. He sprinkles it liberally with cinnamon and blows on the first few tablespoons full. I can almost feel the warmth going thru his body. The waitress times his thick, yellow French toast just right, hands him the maple syrup container, which he lavishly pours all over it. It slops and sops over the edge of his plate. He seems to enjoy black his naked hot coffee as he dawdles over his folded copy of the morning Sentinel.

 

What guts I think, as he gives me a full blown wink and broad smile. His white, white teeth dazzle me. Unable to wink, I blink at him twice. My effort does not work so I look straight at his handsome face, close one eye with my index finger until I believe he has my message. And he does. Before standing, he takes a moment to neaten his table, fold his paper napkin, set the cinnamon next to the ketchup, place his chair where it belongs and step across the narrow aisle between us. 'My, lord, I think. I'm letting myself be picked up like a street walker. What am I doing?'

 

In a warm, friendly way, the semi-stranger introduces himself. 'Call me Willy. May I have a second cup of java with you while you finish your pickle?' I do my best impression, flutter my eyes and tell him I am Lady Ashley and fan myself with the Newsweek magazine. Pausing, I go further, 'Mr. Willy, what do you think I am, a bawdy street walker? I am not that, Sir. Believe me, I am a lady. It just so happens my name is Lola.' He laughs and laughs, showing me his pearly whites again.
Our waitress gets the picture and wordlessly brings us a carafe of hot  coffee with a clean cup for Willy.

 

Lunch time is nearing and tables are filling. Our waitress is uneasy, wants us to leave. Willy calls her over and asks her to clean our table.' I am now ready for lunch, Miss. I'll have what Miss Lola had but leave the tomato off. Let me have a large dill pickle and potato chips. When you bring that, bring a fudge sundae with nuts on top for Miss Lola.' The waitress follows orders She swipes the cleaned table with a not so clean rag, lays out the cheap flat ware and two clean cups.

 

'Willy, I really don't want that sundae.' 'Tough,' he replies. 'I didn't want the tuna sandwich either but my ruse worked. Here we are. Let's play Twenty Questions. I'll go first.' He gives me no time to reply. 'O.K., are you, were you married?' I can't help it and get quite huffy. 'I was not, am not married and I'm not an easy pick-up, until today.' 'I didn't ask  you that, Mister and don't, at the moment, care about your past. My question, are you healthy, wealthy and wise?' Again he smiles, 'I'm two of those. Which do you think I'm not?' I think a minute and answer. You look healthy, you paid for your breakfast, lunch and my treat. Sooooooo,you must be stupid. Right?' Willy's face turns red. He has trapped himself yet manages to put me on the spot. 'Are you a happy, contented, intelligent lady?' he asks me. I simply smile, let him see my deep dimples and tell him, 'Yes, I'm all three now.'

 

It's one o'clock and only a few tables are still being served. Willy gets the check and we leave together. When he takes my hand, I don't pull it away. 'Where's is your car, Lola?' 'Just two blocks from here. I walk over when I need a tuna fix.' Nothing else needs to be said. In silence he accompanies me home. I hand him my pink personal I.D. card. He glances at it quickly and simply says, 'I'll call you,'

 

And he does.