BONE TO PICK
On Friday, I rush home after school to shower, blow-dry my hair, put on makeup, put on the dress, accessorize. I wear my black boots, black stockings and a black faux-leather jacket. I wear my mother’s earrings, black diamond studs. I even wear red lipstick.
But then I change my mind and wipe it off.
On the drive over, I’m too nervous to listen to music. I listen to my phone calmly providing directions and to my own heart anxiously throbbing.
I open my mouth to speak words of affirmation like You can do this! or something along those lines, but what comes out is “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!”
My hands are so sweaty I can barely grip the steering wheel.
“Get it together,” I snarl at my reflection in the rearview mirror. I take a few deep breaths as I pull into the parking lot. I find a space far away from the restaurant, hoping it’ll give me time to walk off my nerves. I don’t let myself linger in the car. I force myself out into the frigid November night.
Having to slog across the parking lot doesn’t do much for my nerves. My sweat freezes my hair to my temples. I almost twist my ankle in a pothole. By the time I open the door to the restaurant, I’m even more agitated than I was before.
It’s a kitschy place. A lot of wood. Ceiling beams wrapped in colorful lights. There are ambiguous flags on the walls, many of them featuring lions or crests, many of them both. The tables are close together and people are drinking out of beer steins. It might be German themed.
I might be on a blind double date at a German-themed restaurant.
Am I going to have to eat sausage in front of strangers?
“Annie!” Jill is waving at me from the bar, her ponytail going wild.
There are two men next to her. One I recognize from the photos on her desk. He’s pretty standard-looking. Guessing that he watches football on Sundays in his lucky sweatpants and that he enjoys trips to Home Depot. He probably has strong opinions about women in politics. I don’t know what they are. But I bet he has them.
The other guy, the guy behind Jill’s husband, is . . . not bad-looking. He’s got a stubbly half beard and dark hair that he’s obviously put some effort into styling. His nose is substantial, and I like it. I want to touch it. Run my fingers over it. He’s got full lips and big eyes. Almost a unibrow but it works.
I walk over, nearly smashing into a waitress passing by with a tray of food. I choose to play it off like it didn’t happen, as the waitress huffs away in her truly unfortunate lederhosen-inspired uniform.
“Hey,” I say to Jill.
“Hi!” she says. “Can I hug you?”
“Sure.”
She throws her arms around my neck. I guess I never realized how short she is. I feel like a giant. I should have worn flats.
“This is my husband, Dan,” she says.
Dan stands up and shakes my hand. I knew he would. He looks like a handshaker. I bet he’ll give his children handshakes instead of hugs.
Maybe I’m projecting because my dad never hugged me. I’m familiar with parental affection in the form of an awkward pat on the back, a firm handshake. The occasional coveted high five.
“And this is Pascal,” Jill says, her voice lilting.
Pascal doesn’t stand up. He waves. “Hi,” he says.
I can’t tell if he’s shy or disappointed.
“Hi. I’m Annie.”
“I know,” he says, and sips his drink. So, not shy.
“Let me check if they’ll seat us,” Jill says, and skips over to the host.
“So,” Dan says, “heard you used to live in the Big Apple.”
“Yeah,” I say, “for twelve years. I just moved here.”
“I never understood why anyone would want to live there. Smells like garbage!”
“Not all the time,” I say. Once you’ve lived in New York, it becomes like a sibling. I can bash it, call it names, but no one else can.
“Table is ready,” Jill sings.
Dan chugs his beer. Pascal doesn’t say or do much of anything. I can feel my anxiety metastasize. My legs go weak underneath me, and I’m afraid I won’t make it to the table. I’m afraid they’ll give, and I’ll fall flat on my face in front of the entire restaurant.
Maybe the other diners are too busy eating giant pretzels to notice.
I get to the table and am seated next to Pascal and Jill, across from Dan, who appears to be scrutinizing me.
“You’re pretty tall,” he says.
“Your server will be right with you,” the host says before quite literally running away from us.