“How tall are you?” Dan asks.
“Five nine,” I say, putting the menu up in front of my face. If he can’t see me, maybe he’ll forget I’m here.
“That’s tall for a girl,” he says.
I shrug. “It’s not that tall.”
“Did you play basketball?”
“Nope.”
“Volleyball?”
“No,” I say, “I played soccer.”
“Soccer?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Huh,” he says. He sounds skeptical.
“Pascal, did you play any sports in high school?” Jill asks.
“Erm,” he says. “I ran track. And I was the captain of ski club.”
“Ooh, that’s cool,” Jill says. “Annie, do you ski?”
“No,” I say. “Sorry.”
The waiter comes by. Dan orders another beer and Jill gets a vodka cranberry. Pascal gets a whiskey neat, which is telling. I also order a whiskey.
Jill asks for the pretzel appetizer and the beer cheese dip. Beer cheese doesn’t sound too appealing to me, but I’m operating under the belief that this dinner is a bad dream, and soon I’ll wake up in my apartment with a lump on my head. It seems to be an effective coping mechanism.
If I were to accept this situation as reality, I’m fairly certain I’d immediately be crushed like a bug under the sheer force of unpleasantness.
“I love this cheese,” Jill says, understanding her role as the load-bearing wall. “I love all cheese, but this cheese is my all-time favorite. Dan says I’m cheesy.”
“You are cheesy,” he says.
“See?” she asks.
Where is my whiskey? I wish Sophie were here. I’d love to see the look on her face as she witnessed this conversation.
I understand now why she would choose to live mainly in isolation. I understand now why I spent years content to stay home with Sam and not interact with other people. It’s too much of a gamble. Some people are terrible.
Like Dan, who is blatantly staring at me.
“What do you teach? Math?” he asks me.
“English and ASL,” I say.
“What’s ASL?”
“American Sign Language.”
“Can you say something in sign language?”
“Yes,” I say.
The waiter sets my whiskey down. Pascal reaches for it, thinking it’s his, and our hands touch.
I look up at him, and he’s looking back at me. His face is void of expression. A brick is more emotive.
He retracts his hand. I gulp my whiskey.
“What’s everyone getting for their main?” Jill asks. “I was thinking the brat with the potato salad. Or maybe the schnitzel.”
Nothing on the menu calls to me. I think my appetite has been permanently destroyed by this interaction.
A pretzel that’s so large and twisty that it resembles a crusty brown octopus is plopped down in the center of the table, along with a cast-iron bowl of bubbling orange cheese.
Jill and Dan dig in, ripping at the pretzel and dunking it in the cheese. Double-dipping. Pascal stares into the depths of his whiskey. Mine’s already gone.
When the waiter comes back to take our order, I ask for another whiskey.
“What will you have to eat?” the waiter asks.
“Oh,” I say, “I guess the mixed green salad. With chicken.”
“A salad?” Dan asks.
“Is that not acceptable to you?” I ask, because the whiskey’s in me now, lowering my tolerance for bullshit.
Dan raises an eyebrow. Jill laughs a nervous, high-pitched giggle. Pascal pulls a classic Pascal move and does absolutely nothing.
The waiter flees. Dan gnaws on a chunk of pretzel and says, “One of the things I liked about Jill was, on our first date, she ordered a cheeseburger. I like a girl who eats.”
“I definitely eat!” Jill says. “I can eat.”
She takes another piece of pretzel and drenches it in cheese, then pops it into her mouth as if she’s trying to prove a point.
“So,” I say, desperate for a change of subject, “how long have you two been married?”
“Three years,” Jill says. “But we still act like newlyweds.”
Something happens under the table and they both giggle and squirm. I throw up a little in my mouth. I swallow it back down, chase it with whiskey.
I shouldn’t have allowed myself to hope that this night would go any better than the way it’s going. That was my mistake.
I see the picture. Sam. Shannon. Her on his lap. Their faces so close. Their cheeks red and slick with that happy glow.