'Alright, breathe.' I think to myself as I ease on the brake of my 1954 Chevy. I inhale deeply, the scent of leather and Polo cologne fill my nostrils. I haven't been this nervous in Lord knows how long. I look down at the creased sheet of notebook paper in my hand. I've had it in my wallet since two weeks ago when I first formally met Eric.
He looked deep into the depths of my soul with his slate gray eyes full of passion and desire. I mean, it might have been confusion and panic that I was mistaking for passion and yearning, but with the sweet smell of blackberries and vanilla eminently wafting from him, all I could focus on was how beautiful he was.
I was red in the face and enchanted by his presence. I stuttered and stumbled over my breath, struggling to form words.
"You're fine." He half smiled. My heart fluttered.
And now, after 3 days of eating lunch together in the school cafeteria, a failed AP English project, three phone calls and two weeks of pure anticipation, I am driving to pick up Eric from his house on
45673 Stockwood Avenue
. And we are going out to eat.
I’m so nervous I almost miss the turn to get onto his street.
I scan all the little brick houses looking for 45673.
There it is! 45673. Eric is standing outside on the porch, the evening rays of sun are hitting his skin in such a way that I’d swear he’s an angel. He grins at me and strides on over to my truck, hands in his pockets.
My heart is pounding in my chest so hard, it’s like I turned on my car stereo and turned the bass all the way up.
“Hey.” Eric says, showing off his sparkling eyes through thick, black, eyelashes.
“..Hi, Eric.” I manage. I’m grinning like an idiot; his name tastes so right coming out of my mouth in casual conversation.
“I’m so glad we could get together tonight!” He says. “I, too, am excited about this outing!” I reply. I pull out of the driveway, keeping an eye on Eric all the while. We make nonchalant small talk all the way to the restaurant, about school, and movies that have just been released, etc. I pray the entire time that he can’t tell how utterly flustered I am to be sitting so close to him that if I reached out my arm, I’d be in contact with his pronounced bicep muscle..
We pull up to the restaurant, a little Thai place downtown, a place we both enjoy. The front of the building has the cherry blossoms and branches emblazoned on the rice paper blinds behind shiny glass. Him and I get out of the car and begin to walk together towards the eatery. I don’t want to stand to close to him, but I don’t want to stand to far away, either. Why am I so anxious? I practically run into him holding the door open for me, I’m so preoccupied with deciding where to stand. As soon as we get inside I can smell the aroma of sweet and sour chicken and soy sauce. As if Eric can read my mind, he glances over at me and says, “Ahh, I love that smell.”
I smile my biggest smile at him, “So do I. Makes me hungry, though. Let’s eat!”
A tiny Asian woman directs us to our table, one for two people in a secluded corner of the restaurant. I send her telepathic messages thanking her.
We open up our menus. I stare at Eric over the top of the laminated sheet with all the specials typed onto it.
“Everything looks delicious. Hmm, I think I’ll go with beef pad Thai, my favorite.” He says.
“I’m thinking that’s what I want, also. Yum.” I exclaim, trying to my hardest to sound calm and relaxed.
It’s hard to remain calm and relaxed when you are sitting across the table from the man of your dreams.
After we place our order, Eric winks at me and grins, “Why don’t you take your jacket off, dearest? It’s warm in here!”
I stand up and giggle like a school girl as I take my jacket off as he suggested. I can feel myself getting excited over the implied provocative feel of his words. As I hang up my coat on the back of my intricately carved wooden chair, all I can think about is Eric coming home with me tonight, and what could happen.
I would slam the heavy front door behind us and he would kiss me, hard, with all of the pent of sexual tension from the evening. I would lead him to my bedroom, closing the door softly this time. I would let him push me onto my unmade bed, and kiss me with his warm, wet lips, from my face down to my waist to my abs to my chest and neck and to my lips again.
I’d unbutton his blue flannel and inhale his sweet, seductive scent. I’d bite his neck and whisper, “Dominate me.
I shiver, damn. I hope he hasn’t noticed my apparent arousal. We gaze around the room, people watching. The baseball game is on. Detroit Tigers versus the Texas Texas
“I’m not really into sports.” I say to Eric. “Ehh, neither am I. It bores me.” He replies, looking over at me with his deep, smiling eyes. I glance upward and thank my luck, shining stars above for the thousandth time since this morning, that I have this opportunity to sit less than 3 feet from the perfect tip of the perfect nose of my perfect man of my sweetest dreams.
He really is something right out of a dream. In fact, this experience in the Thai restaurant seems vaguely reminiscent of a dream I once had. Was it a dream? The more I think about it, the more this entire evening seems familiar. Everything about it, in fact, seems to be a memory stored somewhere on the outskirts of my mind, and it is all coming back to me in this moment. Everything. The polo cologne, the secluded corner table, the beef pad Thai, the baseball game. It’s all eerily in my mind, already. I feel like I’m watching myself sit here in slow motion over and over again. Oh, god. I’m feeling nauseous. My heart is still pounding too fast a beat, but from a different kind of anxiety than before. I shake my aching head, as if to rid it of these ridiculous thoughts. I wipe my sweating hands on the front of my khakis.
I glace around the room nervously. Eric shoots me a look that says, ‘you okay?’ and I half-smile back at him. No way am I telling him that I’m having a déjà vue induced panic attack.
I see the waitress carrying our two plates filled up with steaming hot beef pad Thai.
Eric is happily diving into his meal. My pale hands tremble as I carefully reach for my chopsticks. I try to inhale as evenly as possible. I meticulously assemble the perfect bite of vegetables, seared beef, and rice noodles. I raise the chopsticks to my lips and put it in my mouth. Chewing, I close my eyes and pray for the aching in my skull to go back to wherever it came from.
I gag, this cooking all of a sudden has the same taste and texture of dirt. I spit out the ball of mushy food back onto my plate. I can feel the acidic bile rising in the back of my throat. I drop my chopsticks on the floor and run like hell into the men’s bathroom and stick my head down into the toilet just as the vomit touches the back of my teeth. I open my mouth and retch into the bowl for what feels like hours. I’m shaking like the last leaf left on a tree in an autumn storm. The armpits of my shirt are soaked through with my own sweat.
When I’m finished throwing up, I pick my head up and wipe my moist forehead. I look around the stall and sigh. Oh, god. Eric. He probably left, he didn’t want to be seen with me, the freak with a stress vomiting problem.
At this thought my head is back into the toilet for another few minutes.
“Yuck.” I moan as I begin to cry. Tears streaming down my face, I fall over limply and rest my red face against the cool sea foam green speckled tile.
Either I fell asleep or passed out, for however long it was, when I woke up I was disoriented and damp. I look around, startled, and realize I am still pathetically lying here in the fetal position on the floor of the men’s room in the Thai restaurant. The Thai restaurant that I took Eric to tonight. I groan miserably in self pity as I carefully stand up and steady myself on the silver handicap bar.
I walk out of the stall and look in the speckled mirror. I see a sad, helpless face that I don’t recognize staring back at me. I splash water on my face and scrub my quivering hands until they are red.
A million thoughts are racing through my heavy head as I exit the bathroom, all of them with Eric as the center focus. He’s a good guy, he wouldn’t leave me here. How do you know he’s a good guy, it’s not like you know him that well. Why would have he just sat outside waiting for you? That doesn’t make sense. If he wasn’t going to leave he would have chased after you. Maybe he just has a weak stomach, that’s all. The heart of life is good, right? He’s still here. He has to be.
My hopes were up touching the ceiling. I walked into the lobby and turned to our secluded corner table, expecting to see my flawless, angel of a man sitting right where I left him.
But alas, this isn’t a fairy tale. There was an unpaid bill at the table.. he had gone.
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