November 13, 2015

M and I ate at a restaurant on the square tonight. No reservations and the bar was full, but we scored a window 2-top. Which was interesting since there’s a bus stop right there and a men’s shelter doors down. So people occasionally stared through the glass at us like we were fish in a fishbowl. Or rapped on the glass and shouted indecipherables.

A couple was seated next to us. And I learned, without engaging, that they lived around the corner but had never been there. They were told the Brussels sprouts, the goat cheese, the scallops, and the mac and cheese were good. But they couldn’t find goat cheese on the menu. The woman kept mentioning it until the man pried himself away from the wine list to strain to read the menu. He was no help.

The 5th item on the list was a chevre small plate. I kept myself from engaging. It was already a pretty stressful day for me and interacting with strangers wasn’t on the agenda.

We ordered a couple great cocktails, some standout dishes, and some wine. Throughout the meal, I gathered more info on the couple. Like that they both worked for the University. That the woman worked in a place where her coworkers were her friends. And that she was dreaming of retirement.

During our meal, M and I shared some good, but heavy conversation. The obvious events in Paris and EODM. Still all happening and feeling rather surreal. But also things I’ve been bottling up about work and my health and my family. It was really good to get out, but I welled up a bit. The gist of it is that I am grieving. That I am feeling the irreparable weight of the loss of something I invested twenty years in. That my work is killing me, doing something to me that people who know me don’t like. And I know it isn’t fixable. It took one more outsider to point it out (my doctor this time), to reinforce that I really do need to initiate some change. It was that kind of day for me. Bittersweet really.

When each dish was served, I saw the couple in my peripheral eyeing us. I didn’t look at them. If you look at the bear, the bear will want to play. The man finally says, “I hope you don’t mind we’re watching you.” I laughed and said some niceties. They were newcomers. They’re just curious.

While sharing a dessert, the women, Melanie, started coughing. Wait, no, choking. She was catty-corner from me so I kept shooting glances, realizing I didn’t remember the Heimlich. I looked at M. He’s a doctor. Surely he knows. He locked eyes with me, concerned. We were both waiting for confirmation that she was not going to pull out of this episode. M would step in if he needed to.

But then something happened. Her husband kept saying. “Melanie…Melanie…Melanie…Melanie…you are not going to throw up” in a stern voice. He wasn’t saying “you can do it, you can avoid throwing up,” he was saying, “you better not fucking throw up.” She eventually eased out of it. And he said, “What the FUCK, Melanie. Go the fuck home. Get out. Walk the FUCK home.” She said, “No, I’m fine.” He said, “No. You’re not fine you threw up.” Her: “No, I didn’t.” Him: “Yes, you did. Stuff was coming out your nose. Go home. Get out of here. Go…Go…Melanie, go.” Her: “No.” Him: “JESUS CHRIST, Melanie. Get the fuck out of here. Stuff was coming out your nose. Fuck, Melanie. Go.” This back and forth goes on for an insanely longer bit of time.

The server happens by and the guy changes tune, shakes the server’s hand and with his shit-eating grin says something about the fine meal. That they’re done.

Server brings us both our checks. In the meantime, M and I are silently freaking out. Staring at each other. I try to make normal conversation to deflect what’s going on. I know M is containing confrontation. I know this behavior is triggering him. I’m fretting that M will step in and am thankful when he doesn’t engage. I want to be away from this.

I hear the man comment on their bill total. $140. M and I leave and he tells me that he glanced to see what the man tipped. $20. Twenty fucking bucks.

That goddamned fucking asshole.