nicotine and gravy
we're sitting in a busy yet quiet restaurant.
maybe it's the tail end of the Thursday afternoon lunch rush.
we talk. we laugh. we plan stupid little things that we probably won't end up doing but we get excitied about them anyway.
and you will never understand how hard it is for me.
to sit here facing you like this.
lying to you like this.
the illusion of contentment.
every time we dine out it gets harder and harder.
it is eating me alive.
you have no idea.
how badly.
i want to.
start a food fight.
sure it seems like we're casually chatting about The Office or global warming or how you never see pinball machines anymore.
i am talking about these things but i am not thinking about them.
i am planning.
i am planning the most elaborate and desperate food fight this prissy little bistro has ever seen.
when i am glancing around the room, know that i am strategizing trajectories, trying to ascertain the feasibility of launching off that chair and sliding across that table while flinging shrimp pasta at those who dared to sit in the lovely seats against the west wall, near the terrace.
"how come you never wear nice clothes when we go out to eat?"
because i'm dressing for maneuverability.
i want so bad to start this.
to birth this public orgasm of inappropriate behaviour.
it's been haunting me since we walked through the door.
menu as battle roster.
i didn't order the special because i'm hungry for the special.
i ordered the special because i know the special would be an efficient long-range ballistic.
the side dish will be used to blind and confuse the nearest server, allowing me to launch your california salad just over her shoulder and into the reserved seats.
this should buy me enough time to make a mad dash to the kitchen.
(oh sweet jesus the ammo in that kitchen.)
i am seeing this and i am feeling this and it's only seconds away and i'm so ready and my hands are shaking and i think i have an erection.
i down the rest of my wine.
(to calm myself? or to steady my nerves for battle?)
and for a second i think "i'm ok. let's just have a nice meal. i barely even know you."
but when i look down at that poutine in front of me i know it's a lie.
and i dig my hands in, double fisting, veins of gravy crawling down my wrists as i raise my weapons from thier bowl.
as i slowly and stealthily rise to stand on my chair i look you in the eyes and say "i'm sorry."
this is also a lie.
join me.
i will win.
maybe it's the tail end of the Thursday afternoon lunch rush.
we talk. we laugh. we plan stupid little things that we probably won't end up doing but we get excitied about them anyway.
and you will never understand how hard it is for me.
to sit here facing you like this.
lying to you like this.
the illusion of contentment.
every time we dine out it gets harder and harder.
it is eating me alive.
you have no idea.
how badly.
i want to.
start a food fight.
sure it seems like we're casually chatting about The Office or global warming or how you never see pinball machines anymore.
i am talking about these things but i am not thinking about them.
i am planning.
i am planning the most elaborate and desperate food fight this prissy little bistro has ever seen.
when i am glancing around the room, know that i am strategizing trajectories, trying to ascertain the feasibility of launching off that chair and sliding across that table while flinging shrimp pasta at those who dared to sit in the lovely seats against the west wall, near the terrace.
"how come you never wear nice clothes when we go out to eat?"
because i'm dressing for maneuverability.
i want so bad to start this.
to birth this public orgasm of inappropriate behaviour.
it's been haunting me since we walked through the door.
menu as battle roster.
i didn't order the special because i'm hungry for the special.
i ordered the special because i know the special would be an efficient long-range ballistic.
the side dish will be used to blind and confuse the nearest server, allowing me to launch your california salad just over her shoulder and into the reserved seats.
this should buy me enough time to make a mad dash to the kitchen.
(oh sweet jesus the ammo in that kitchen.)
i am seeing this and i am feeling this and it's only seconds away and i'm so ready and my hands are shaking and i think i have an erection.
i down the rest of my wine.
(to calm myself? or to steady my nerves for battle?)
and for a second i think "i'm ok. let's just have a nice meal. i barely even know you."
but when i look down at that poutine in front of me i know it's a lie.
and i dig my hands in, double fisting, veins of gravy crawling down my wrists as i raise my weapons from thier bowl.
as i slowly and stealthily rise to stand on my chair i look you in the eyes and say "i'm sorry."
this is also a lie.
join me.
i will win.
posted by mike | 8:30 AM
3 Comments:
remember that time at freeman's when you went elbow deep in that mediterranian platter? hummus and tzatziki oozing in curls between your dirty fingers?
that was gross.
also: do you ever ask for sides of gravy with your breakfast?
you know what they say...eight glasses a day or something.
you know its way more fun to get nice clothes dirty.
Post a Comment
<< Home