A loud restaurant. Uptown. East side. The waiters are all wearing tuxes. We order a bottle. I'm in a black dress, skintight, very short. Lamé blazer, a runway piece that debuted when I was still a child. He's in his suit. He tops off my glass. The walls are all wood, with hanging paintings of Italian farm houses. We are seated at a square bistro table with bentwood chairs.
This happened when I was 28 years old, in the absurdly early stages of a relationship. The women around me all have their skin pulled back. They are fawning over their husbands. They are drinking white wine and crossing their legs. They are reapplying their makeup, checking their appearances in their compact mirrors. Our waiter takes our order. "You're in the middle of the action," he says. "Best table!"
This is a moment from the recent past where I have felt the most like a girl, a girlfriend. A girl in a sea of girls. |
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