Estimated reading time: 13 minutes
If there was anything Mark was a stickler for, it was punctuality. Which made his lateness – albeit three minutes (that’s not the point!) – even more jarring. He was never late. Especially not on dates.
Underarms pitted with sweat, he had sprinted from the bus stop, slaloming between work commuters finishing their daily grind. The jacket covered the worst of his efforts, and as he arrived at the small boutique restaurant, he prayed that the air conditioning was working. Better yet, he hoped, a table available out in the courtyard. If, in fact, there was outdoor seating.
The door opened for him, two happy customers smiling and holding it ajar as he traded places. It was a small, dark entrance area. A lectern to his left was manned by the maitre’d. The middle-aged man with an oily combover checked the confirmation booking at his terminal and suggested he wait by the bar. Mark breathed a sigh of relief, and felt his pulse steady. A drink would go some way toward calming him down.
On his left was said bar, currently unattended. The bottles on display, he had courted briefly at various times throughout his life. In fact, he could embarrass every bottle like a best man’s speech. Blue Aftershock – his first introduction to hangovers as a teenager. Tequila – his go-to party drink during college. Snort the salt, knock back the shot and squirt the lemon juice in his eye. Captain Morgan Rum was his summer fling in Cuba. The Irish creamy liquor of Baileys was a lozenge for sore throats and a fantastic hair of the dog. And so on, and so forth. They and their friends were beautifully backlit against the wall pleading, ‘Pick me. Pick me’. That was another time, Mark thought. Another me.
On his right was a nook with two well-dressed stand racks. Various coats, jackets, and umbrellas hung there. The narrow passage beyond led to the dining area, with tables and chairs tightly packed together. Despite the early evening hour, it was dark and smoky inside. The lighting was dim and soft music, a jazzy instrumental cushioned the dinner conversations.
The bar, long enough to accommodate three tall stools, was currently occupied by a couple and…
“Mark?” The woman rose and took the two steps necessary to close the distance between them in the small room.
Mark, never knowing how to greet women – especially beautiful European women – quickly consulted his guide to etiquette, published in 2005, and defaulted to handshake mode.
“Yvana,” he said, pumping the hand, knowing the shake was too forceful, even as he was doing it. “Sorry, I’m late. The bus…”
“Don’t explain!” she said, smiling and showing a perfect curve of capped whites. “I arrive not long ago. I only have time for three whiskey.”
Mark stared open mouthed, and the woman laughed, slapping him playfully on the top of the arm.
“I joke!”
“Had me worried there for a second! Should we check if the table is ready?”
As they approached the maitre d’ Mark took the opportunity to linger, adjusting his jacket sleeve, and gave an apprising head to toe glance at his date. She was taller than he expected, but not taller than his 6 ‘2. She was also more beautiful than the photos – a rarity in the online dating game. Yvana wore black jeggings covering long, toned legs. A flimsy light open-necked floral blue blouse displayed the top of her modest cleavage. She was slim and had short, brown shoulder-length hair with blonde highlights.
She turned quickly, almost catching him in a lecherous stare and he quickly rescued himself, leading the way through the corridor to their assigned table. Nods from neighbouring guests greeting them – some hungry stares from men above tilted glasses. The room was busy, with little wiggle space for knees or elbows. With his larger frame, and the small path that snaked between the tables, he made a note to himself that he would need to be careful with flailing arms or hot dishes. Candles in the centre of tables were currently being lit, casting long lazy shadows across the room.
He moved the chair back for his date, before they both took their places.
“Can’t believe we’re actually here.”
“Oh, I come here all the time.”
“No,” Mark said. “I mean, meeting in real life.”
Yvana laughed, holding her cupped palm up to her face to hide that beautiful smile. “It’s true!” she said. “I shy. It my fault.”
The couple exchanged nervous chatter and incrementally, with each passing minute each eased into their chair and out of their initial awkwardness. A waiter arrived and slid two slim leatherbound menus in front of them. He had a stiff ramrod back and flared out nostrils which made looking up at the man resemble taking aim from a shotgun.
“Something to drink?” he said in a heavy accent.
“I know you don’t drink,” Yvana said, peering up from the drinks menu and receiving a nod from Mark, “but for me…”
“Can I recommend for Madam, the Bordeaux mon chéri? Twelve years. She is a full bodied red, long necked and with a whisper of blackcurrant and plum.”
“But is good Jeffrey?”
The man, somewhere north of his fifties, seemed to wilt at the sound of his name on her lips. His body, Mark noticed, almost snapped closed like a clasp knife.
“Have I ever let Madam down?” The toothy smile, shades of pissy yellow, was quickly slammed shut, lips smacking together as the body straightened. “And for Sir?”
“Just a boring Coke for me.”
The waiter scribbled the order in a small notepad and took the menus back.
“I shall bring the food menus now.”
“Only one,” Yvana said, and then, directed at Mark. “I know what I want. I’ve tried everything on the menu at least once.”
“In that case,” Mark said, “let’s make it interesting.”
“You bored already?” Above that curved smile, the green eyes gleamed like emeralds.
“Far from it. Why don’t you order for me?
“Risky, I like it!”
“Well we’ve been texting long enough, so let’s see how well you really know me.”
“This sounds like a test.”
“Maybe it is,” Mark said, leaning back in his chair. This was going much better than he could have imagined.
Yvana narrowed her eyes, slowly nodding. The waiter excused himself to get the drinks, and by the time he had returned, his companion had broken from her spell.
“I think you’ll enjoy what I order for you.”
“And if I hate it?”
“You won’t. Everything on menu is good. Jeffrey?”
The man tilted forward an inch at the waist to show he was attentive. Yvana said something in a different language which was jotted down hastily, before the man hurried off to the next table.
“What language was that?”
“You don’t know where I’m from? You fail first test.” Yvana gave a dramatically forlorn look, cradling the base of the tall glass of wine between her delicate fingers.
“Romania. But you spent seven years in Latvia where you studied at college. You also spent a year in the US with an uncle. You also have family in Bulgaria.”
Yvana nodded. “I’m impressed.”
“And I’ve seen enough Friends to know you weren’t speaking American English.” This completely disarmed the woman’s mock defiance, and that beaming smile and twinkling eyes returned. “I’d say one of the slavic languages. Bulgarian.”
She raised the glass to her lips expressionless, not breaking eye contact. Only when she had lowered it to the table again and on his maddening enquiry did she answer.
“You are very good!”
The next fifteen minutes passed remarkably quickly for the pair, trading dating horror stories which only served to elevate their current date to even greater heights. Both were consciously aware that months of texts counted for little when transferred to the real world, but fortunately, at least as dinner was being dutifully prepared, their rapport was a very real, very tangible thing. And Mark was determined not to mess it up.
“Oh, here come Jeffrey.”
The waiter arrived, wheeling a food trolley around the various tables before coming to a stop directly beside Mark. On it was a huge silver platter dish and lid. Yvana gave a delightful gleeful squeal, clapping her hands close to her chest. Curious eyes glanced in their direction at the mystery meal, and Mark was more than a little hungry. He was famished. Plates had already been placed on their table, and anticipating a exotic sizzling meat of sorts, Mark laid the towel across his lap and fetched the steak knife and fork.
“And voila!”
The waiter lifted the ring of the lid in dramatic fashion, revealing the content of the platter. On the silver dish with beady black eyes blinking against the glare of the candle light was a newborn baby.
“Would Madam like anything else? Dipping sauces?”
“No, I think we good for now Jeffrey. Maybe, another glass of the Bordeaux?”
“Very well. And for sir? Sir?”
Mark’s smile was wide as he looked firstly to the waiter, then to Yvana and finally to the other diners seated. The other guests were straining to view, turning in their chairs and admiring the newly arrived dish. Quiet murmurs passed from table to table. Mark turned his attention back to the dish and watched the small naked form on the silver platter with the pink soft skin wriggle like an oversized maggot. The waiter lifted the heavy tray off the trolley and placed it in the centre of the table. The baby, annoyed by the sudden movement, began crying, sharp wails drowning out both the music and the conversation. The diners pivoted to view the table with the wailing baby, some standing, and others pausing their own half-finished meals in rapt attention.
“What is this?”
The waiter looked down his beak of a nose and replied, “Dinner, sir.”
Mark looked across at Yvana and could see none of the earlier humour. In fact, she was looking quite impatient. The steak knife was in one hand already and held out toward the baby.
“Come on,” she said. “It tastes so much better when it’s crying.”
“What the hell?!”
Mark pushed his chair back from the table. The screech across the wooden floor even silenced the baby momentarily. Lying helpless with flailing arms and legs above her, the shape twisted and turned, shaking tiny angry fists at the world.
“Something wrong sir?” the waiter asked. “Is it not to your taste?” Directing the question at Yvana, he asked. “I could get one from another region if darker meat is more to your taste?”
“Darker meat?!” Mark stood, addressing the waiter, Yvana – the whole restaurant. “Is this some kind of sick joke?”
“Please, Mark. You’re embarrassing me.”
The music had stopped momentarily. Bemused diners watched above full plates of food, shaking their heads, and whispering to one another. The two waiters on duty were standing, impatiently waiting for the scene to pass before resuming service again. Mark shook his head as if in a dream, and took his seat again.
“Shall I take it away?” the waiter asked.
“Yes!” Mark replied, cupping his head in his hands and furiously rubbing his face. When he opened his eyes again, the silver platter was replaced on the trolley with the lid covering. He watched as the trolley was wheeled away, attracting shrugs from guests nearest and head shakes as it left the room.
The music resumed, and Mark remained silent, sipping his Coke. Perhaps, he thought, it was some sort of slavic tradition and a way to wind up foreigners. Foreigner, he smirked. In my own country. He noticed for the first time that the guests crowded around him were all speaking in a different language. Yvana – the beautiful Yvana – had her arms folded across her chest and was watching him.
“I don’t know what that was supposed to be,” he said. “But…not for me. OK?”
The woman nodded, took a sip from her glass and offered a thin wan smile.
“Listen, I’ve lost my appetite. Can we—?” Yvana suddenly rose to her feet. “Wait, what are you—?
“It’s bad enough that you embarrass me in front of my friends. People from my country. But you say now you not eat? I think you not a man of your word. Like all the others.”
“Wait, Yvana!” Mark said, reaching for the woman’s hand. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I think it is you that have the problem. Goodbye.”
Mark watched as the woman strode away, carrying the stares of half the people in the room with her until her shapely figure ended with the door closing. Standing at the table, Mark took a heavy sigh, swirled the last of his Coke in the tumbler glass and downed it. He could hear his familiar bottled friends from the bar calling his name. Not this bar. Definitely not this bar. Another bar. Nearby. He pulled out his wallet, tossed a couple of notes on the table and seeing Yvana’s half finished glass, thought what the hell.
He picked it up, nose curiously seeking out the blackcurrant and plum bouquet, and finding none, before taking a sip. It was warmer than he anticipated. Then again, it had been sitting for a while, he reasoned, warmed by Yvana’s soft, polished hand.
But there was something familiar in the taste. He tipped the remainder into the back of his throat. There, it slid slowly to its home.
Home. A childhood memory emerged. One where he had been accidentally booted in the nose during football. The teacher had instructed him to keep his head back and hold a cold press to the area.
“It’s better that way,” she had said. “Helps the blood congeal and collect at the back of your throat.”
This story was written for the ambitious creative project, ‘The Weekly Kook’, where I release a brand new short story every week for a year, totalling…yep, you guessed it – 52 stories.
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Check all the stories here as I release them.