“Black is everyone’s color,” I said.
The host—a short, dark man with cigarette-stained teeth—greeted Gareth by name, then escorted us through the restaurant to a small patio lined with ivy. Several torches filled with citronella candles blazed as posts to the patio. There were only two other tables. Ours was clearly the best. It made me feel proud, and then my stomach lurched, as if I had stopped short in a speeding car, just moments away from an accident, but somehow, through the grace of God, had saved myself.
After Gareth ordered what I presumed was an expensive bottle of wine (the flourish of his hand, the way his voice ended on a high note, the generous nod of the waiter in response all made me feel like something important was happening), I turned to him and said, “So, Gareth, tell me about you. I don’t know much except what I’ve read on the Internet.”
“First tell me what you’re going to have,” he said urgently.
“I’m going to have the…” I glanced at the menu. “The veal, I think.”
“Oh, no,” he said. He inhaled, stretched his lips in pain, and shook his head. “You really don’t want the veal.”
“No?”
“Anything but the veal.”
“Well, what do you recommend?”
“Really, anything else.”
“Shrimp scamp—” I looked at him. He shook his head slowly. I closed the menu and placed it on the table. “What are you having?”
“I was thinking about having steak. We could get it for two? Any way you like, though medium rare is how I like it.”
“That sounds lovely. Whatever you say. I’m easy.” And then I laughed. I raised my eyebrows at him. I don’t know why I did that. I didn’t want to flirt with him, that much I knew.
He looked down, flushed. “Oh, I’m sure you’re not easy. I’m sure you’re quite the lady.”
“I am, I am. I’m sorry I even said that. Anyway, tell me about you.” I smiled my sweetest, most gentle smile, the one I give to small children, the elderly, and uneasy suitors. “You write children’s books. That must be so rewarding.”
“Oh, yes, I love children. I want to have at least three of them. Do you want to have children?”
“I’m undecided.” This was true, though I knew it would discourage him. On the one hand, I would love to have children. On the other hand, then I would have children. That part I wasn’t so sure about.
“You look like you’d be a great mother. You’ve got the perfect figure for childbirth, too.”
I was certain this was a compliment, though it didn’t feel like one.
“God, I’m such an ass,” he said. “I didn’t say that right at all.” He flushed, then coughed. Slapped a hand to his face, then ducked down.
I wanted to reach out to him, pull his hand away from his face and pat it, calm him down. There’s too much agitation over words in our lives. It seems ridiculous at times. I know my own words tumble out sometimes like ill-behaved children rolling down a hill after church while wearing their Sunday finery. Messy, messy words.
But then he added, “I do think you should at least consider it. Children.”
This must be the comedy-writer part of him coming out, I thought. This must be a big joke. I laughed to test my theory. He looked disappointed. Oh, dear. He really wasn’t kidding.
“Listen, Gare, I don’t know if you should—”
His head snapped up. “My name is not Gare.”
His voice got loud, as if he were trying to be heard above the din, only there wasn’t any din, just he and I outside under the one star faintly blinking through the lights of the city. Or was it a plane?
“It’s easy to skip that last syllable, I understand, but I hate it. My name is Gareth. It’s a bit odd, sure, but it’s a family name, and I like it. I’m big on tradition.”
“Fine,” I said. I wanted him to calm down. I hadn’t anticipated any dramatic moments, and I didn’t like it.
He leaned in closer. “Once, I went out with this girl and when she was trying to get me to do stuff she would call me Gare Bear, like that would win me over. And the only thing worse than ‘Gare’ is some sort of insinuation that I’m an animal, especially a large, scary, hairy animal.”
“I understand,” I said.
“Just—you know what? No nicknames at all. That’s what works best for me.”
“No nicknames. Gotcha.” I picked up the menu again and stared hard at it. He tapped his fingers on the table. He tapped them sharply. “I’ve reconsidered,” I said. “I don’t want steak. I think I’ll have the veal after all.”
“No steak?” he said. He hadn’t calmed down yet, but I think he could see where this was going. He was zooming in for a crash landing any minute.