Swish

eleven

Please go read "The Truth About Books And Boys." One more chapter left after this, and then we're done! 

eleven

He pulls my chair out for me, and I thank him before blushing and sitting down. The hostess leaves us after placing two identical menus down on the table, and then we’re alone. It’s just the two of us. Him. And me. But we’ve been alone in the past, so this time isn’t any different. It always feels a bit strange to be alone with him, but maybe that’s because of his connection to Jay or just because he’s, well, him. Maybe it’ll always feel weird, and maybe it isn’t even because of his association with my brother or because he’s him. Perhaps it’s because we’re us, and things are just always going to be perpetually peculiar when it comes to our interactions. But right now I try to shove those thoughts down, and focus on the here and now.

           “Why is always so dark in restaurants at night?” he wonders aloud, his fingers reaching for a menu, but stopping.

           “I know, right? Like, I don’t care about the ambiance—it’s dark outside, so wouldn’t it make sense to be light in here?” I laugh in utter agreement.

           “Exactly!” he exclaims like I’ve just stated something worth branding on billboards across America. “We come into a building expecting to, like, see, ya know? And then it’s darker in the building than it is outside, and that’s just so screwed up, isn’t it?”

           “So screwed up!” I nod ardently.

           “Like, if I can barely see anything in this lighting, how do they expect me to read their menu?” he continues, and I just keep on nodding along. Because while our conversation is utterly idiotic, it’s still a conversation, which is better than the awkward alternative: silence. We’re not good at silence, as I’ve learned over the past few weeks. When muteness consumes us, nothing good can come. So we talk. Even if it’s about nothing at all. Anything is better than taciturnity, no matter how absurd.

           So I say, “Kyle, one day you’re going to be the guy to put an end to dark restaurants at night.”

           “Damn straight, Sal!”

           “Your slogan can be something like, ‘We like bright lights!’”

           “Yeah, or ‘The lights are ALWAYS on!’”

           I laugh. He laughs. The discussion has come to its terminal point, so to avoid the inevitable awkwardness that will soon follow, we each instinctively grab a menu and busy ourselves with gazing at the options. It’s an unsaid excuse as to why we’re not talking, but it’s a sucky one and a falsehood. My eyes skim over the selections and the prices and the amount of calories that everything has. Then, I’m interrupted by a third individual. And so is Kyle.

           “Hi! I’m Vivien, and I’ll be serving you this evening,” greets a twenty-something brunette with enough energy to power a Prius. “Can I start you off with any beverages?”

           Kyle looks over to me, signaling that I’m first to voice my choice of drink. “Just a water, please,” I request as politely as I can.

           The waitress turns to Kyle expectantly as she scribbles down my order, and he says, “I’ll have a water, too, please.” She nods at the both of us, and she is about to retreat to go and retrieve our glasses containing two parts hydrogen and one part oxygen, but then Kyle adds, “Oh, and can we actually get one more water, please? We’re waiting for someone else.” The waitress nods, adding it to the list, and then she’s off, leaving Kyle and I unaccompanied, once again.