about a boy, part two

Last night, A took J's brother P (and his guide dog, Joy), another friend from the dance, E (whose sight is departing fast), P1 (who has no central vision in one of her eyes from birth), and me (with my bifocals) to a nice little French restaurant downtown, a place called Chez Nous. I'd never been there but knew about it because of M, a waiter there whom I met through G (he's a fan of hers), with whom I was supposed to go out about a year ago or so, but he blew me off... I don't know what the deal was, exactly, but I don't have any major bad feelings about him, just a sort of wistful, unrealized desire -- to know, and to be with him.

P1 arrived at my house at 6:30, she in her "simple black dress" (a must in any woman's wardrobe, as I'm sure I've heard fashionistas say since Dinah Shore had her own TV show). She looked very sexy, to be sure. I would have been all over her, if I was a straight man, but because I'm not, I didn't even reach out for her hand (I think partly as a protest of something that is so acceptable by society between a man and woman in public -- even if one or both of the participants happen to be homos -- but is verboten among people of the same sex, particularly men, even if they are very open-minded men and not necessarily homosexual). Little political gestures like these just come about as a personal protest of myself, not to prove anything to Society at large, or even to my friend in the moment.

M greeted me with a kiss at the restaurant. I'm not sure, but it seemed like he was going for my lips. I hugged him and felt (and heard) his kiss near my ear, but I didn't kiss back. Another protest of sorts. He asked about me, I asked about him. P1, once she knew that he was waiter, perceived that he was fawning over me throughout the meal. He brought out a goat cheese appetizer before we'd even gotten into reading the menus. A, who is a real restaurant aficianado, was quite impressed by what I seemed to be capable of causing to happen. Having had a recent conversation with the two of them at an Italian restaurant about the woes of my heart, they both seemed to be fluttering around me like seagulls at the beach, trying to figure out what was going on-- or better yet what was not going on between the waiter and me.

I prefer vegetarianism -- though I love fish, and I'm sure I would love chicken and other things if I allowed myself to eat them -- but A, knowing that I occasionally eat fish, is always telling me about the fabulous fish dishes at a particular restaurant to which she has invited me. And because she is hosting me, if there aren't any major vegetarian options on the menu, I don't make any kind of a stink about eating the fish. I would rather not, but, like I said, I do like the taste of fish. Last night I had the ruby trout with pecans and a vanilla sauce that at first bite seemed like it would go as well on a stack of pancakes. It was sweet, but not too sweet; and the fish was tender and amazing. I started off with a roasted red pepper bisque (M's choice over the mushroom paté).

We went through two bottles of wine, and then had dessert -- I had chocolate mousse and a cappuccino, which A said were fabulous at Chez Nous, though I've had better. All in all, the experience was quite delightful. I made a vague attempt to see if there was any interest on M's part on the way out by asking if he'd seen the movie The Fall (my current favorite movie and near obsession), since he said his summer is full of work, movies and swimming, and since my summer is full of work and movies. He has seen it, and he loved it (said it was a great antidote to the Hollywood blockbusters he'd been seeing), I'm happy to report, though it left nothing more to our conversation, just a mutual love of a great movie. I guess I could have said something more, but at the heart of it, I had to protect myself from the sad feelings I had a year ago or whenever it was, when it seemed that he was interested in me, promised to call, twice, and didn't. I have to honor myself more than that, I think.

And that's what I told P1 when she called me on her way home from my house. "We didn't talk about the waiter on our walk home," she said, sounding like the seagull and me with a bag of potato chips. We had walked home together, needing to walk off the wine and the food (and the nightcaps at the nearby Hilton that P bought us -- I had a lovely port). We walked through the rough part of downtown, next to the homeless shelter, around the clusters of men and women who were hiding in plain view, one of whom said something as we approached and elicited a yelp from P1. She took my hand and I held back. It was a little awkward as I fought off my internally processing personal political agenda and enjoyed the outward affection of a friend who accepts me for all of my foibles, and loves me at least as much as I love her.