A Love Song for Ricki Wilde (50)

They were seated for four seconds before Ricki noticed the other guests. “Look,” she whispered, clapping her palm to her mouth.

A couple across the room paid their check and then rose from their seats. The guy was wearing a buffalo plaid flannel; his date wore a cozy cashmere sweater—and, well, that was where their outfits stopped. The man had on tighty-whities. The woman was wearing a mesh thong.

They all looked normal on top. But down below, they wore nothing but their underwear.

Suddenly, a svelte young white guy with a handlebar mustache, a polo shirt, and a Speedo hurried to their table. “Sir? Ma’am? I’m your waiter. Did the hostess offer to check your pants?”

Ezra stared at him, incredulous. “If I may… what the hell y’all do at this brunch?”

“Well, this is a bottomless brunch. No bottoms.” He paused. “It’s a pun?”

Ricki glanced at Ezra, lips kneaded together in rising hilarity.

“Okay, so I just skimmed the write-up! It was in the ‘Best Of’ section.”

“Best of what, though?” giggled Ricki.

The waiter handed them drink menus. “Sit with it for a moment. Our clientele finds the experience to be quite freeing.”

He left, and Ricki and Ezra watched a thirty-something blonde walk past them to the bathroom, wearing a designer blouse and cherry-print bikini briefs.

Ricki’s eyes were huge. “Is this even sexy? These seats are leather; it can’t feel good on naked thighs.” She quieted her voice. “I read about a woman who sat on her leather couch for six years, and her skin fused to it. She had to be cut away.”

“An introvert’s cautionary tale,” said Ezra, loving the absurdity of this experience.

“Look, I’m kink-positive, but I can’t imagine eating croque madame in a thong.”

“No? How about a Belgian waffle?”

“How repressed do you have to be to require a panty brunch to unleash your inner thot?”

“I bet most of these folks came here just to tell the story later.” He slid the menu toward Ricki. Leaning their heads toward each other, they scanned the cocktail list: Triangle of Love. Sunday Undie. Banana (Hammock) Daiquiri. Well Hung.

The waiter returned, his spindly, hairy legs looking so vulnerable. “Cocktail? Fine day for an Ass-erol Spritz! I should’ve mentioned that, legally, you must remove your pants to stay.”

“No thanks,” said Ricki. “We’re intentionally trying to keep our pants on today.”

The waiter scratched his chin, exposing a #BLM wrist tattoo. “I don’t know if I’m allowed to do this, but follow me. And keep your eyes to yourself.”

Eyes trained on the floor, Ezra and Ricki trailed the waiter through the restaurant and into the backyard. And there, before them, was a snow globe brought to life. The pandemic-era globe was decorated with ski-chalet-style features: twinkly lights, a white shag rug, a rustic picnic bench, and cozy throw blankets. It was magical.

“It’s yours for the hour, if you want it,” said the pants-less waiter.

Oh, they wanted it. Ricki and Ezra took their seats inside their own private bubble, pants on, and the waiter left them to grab some drinks.

“We better tip him good,” said Ezra. “He saved our lives.”

“A true ally. Did you see the BLM tat on his wrist?”

“I did,” he acknowledged mildly. “The gesture’s appreciated. I’m just… tired. Inventing slogans to justify your humanity, again and again, is depressing. ‘Black Lives Matter’ was ‘Black Power’ was ‘A Black Man Was Lynched Yesterday.’ Feels like Groundhog Day.”

She agreed. “Think of the protest songs. There’s one every decade. Billie sang ‘Strange Fruit’ in the ’30s. Sam Cooke wrote ‘A Change Is Gonna Come’ in the ’60s.”

“Marvin wrote ‘What’s Going On’ in the ’70s. NWA wrote ‘Fuck tha Police’ in the ’80s. And on and on.” Ezra sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve lived through so much pointless suffering. I’ve lost so many people. It takes a toll.”

Ricki eyed the twenty-eight-year-old man across from her. They were the same age, but he seemed so worldweary. What had he seen?

And, God help her, there it was: Ricki was drawn to this secret tragedy of Ezra, the mystery, the tangible sadness. His unknowable depths.

“Well, the world may be in shambles around us,” said Ricki, ever optimistic, “but we’re still creating through it. We’ll always have art, love, stories, adventures, beauty…”

“Flowers,” he said with a grin.

“Pianos.” She grinned back. “Can I be horribly nosy for a second?”

“Go ahead,” he said, his voice an invitation. “Do your worst.”

“How does a freelance pianist afford to drop thousands on art before he’s even thirty?”

“No big secret, just good investments. And songwriting credits.”

“Yeah? Anything I know?”

“Hmm.” He plucked at his full bottom lip, thinking. “Do you listen to any big band tunes? Bebop? Blues? Jazz?”

“Well, not really. I’m more of a hip-hop, pop, R&B girl.”

“And where do you think all that comes from?”