—Shit. Look what you’ve done to my skirt. I only bought it last week.
—I’m really sorry, miss. I’ll pay to have it cleaned. Or replaced.
—You stupid bitch. There’s no way you’ll be able to afford to replace it on your measly waitress pay. God, I’m already sick of this place. It’s just bursting with inept Monos.
—Calm down, Hannah.
—You should have taken me to the Hotel du Vin, Mark. My diary says it’s more civilized there. This bitch has gone and ruined my Dior. God, I’ve just lost my appetite.…
Personally I thought that the splotches of violet gave the fabric an interesting avant-garde appearance (even though the skirt did look more Banksy than Dior). Unfortunately, my date did not share this sentiment. She gathered up her skirt and flounced out of the restaurant after filling the poor waitress’s ears with more colorful curses. I can’t say I was sorry to see Hannah go. Her company can be asphyxiatingly cloying at times. She also has a tendency to be melodramatic; I suppose she expected me to follow her with a placating expression on my face. But I decided that I couldn’t be bothered to go after the histrionic Miss Astor-Darlington. After all, she was a dreadful disappointment in bed earlier today. She lay there in silence like a dead fish, expecting me to do all the hard work. Her sagging boobs were as enticing as two sandbags.
The Mono waitress, however, was an altogether different matter. Her cheeks still bore the rosy flush of a teenager; both childlike innocence and naive charm radiated from her face. To make things better, I also got a clear view of her generous cleavage as she bent down to retrieve the pen. Her breasts were barely concealed by that tight-fitting top of hers (this is partly the reason why I like coming to Varsity Blues, I suppose; they love putting their Mono waitresses in tarty outfits). Her arse was equally impressive, even monumental in scope. Her eyes, despite brimming over with mortification, sizzled like a scorching summer day. If I were a poet, I would be tempted to wax lyrical about their lavender properties. She apologized, offering to pay for my ruined dinner out of her own pocket. I accepted with glee, knowing that it would give me an opportunity to admire her ample assets for a little longer.
I watched her bustle up and down the room for twenty minutes or so, noticing that several other male diners were also casting lustful glances in her direction. The Bordeaux she brought me proved to be unfortunate cat-piss plonk; it must have been one of those lowly fifth-growths Dad will not deign to buy in his lifetime (or the next one). Varsity Blues should learn a thing or two about stocking decent Bordeaux. But I somehow managed to finish the entire carafe. Life’s too short to drink bad wine, but dreadful wine is more palatable in the presence of a pretty woman. I left a small tip and a note inviting her to dinner at the Hotel du Vin at 19:30 this Monday, which the other female server, Emily, confirmed was her day off.
I’m sure Charming Curvaceous Blonde with Sizzling Eyes will show up at the appointed time. She looks like an easy catch. I’m even inclined to think that cherubic Mono waitresses might make a refreshing change from hoity-toity Duo broads (with double-barreled last names) who keep mumbling Kafka in their sleep. Especially if said waitresses are endowed with delicious breasts that are crying out for a quick jiggle.
A quick jiggle? I gape at the faded words on the page. Did I really spout such appalling garbage in my diaries when I was younger? I must have been drunk out of my mind that evening. On bad Bordeaux, too. There may be some truth in the aphorism that a writer’s youthful indiscretions and bad prose will return to haunt him in old age. I groan before flipping a few more pages to the final section of the following Monday’s entry:
Dinner at the du Vin was great. Charming Blonde (NTS: Her name’s Claire Bushey) showed up in a cocktail dress with a plunging neckline, and I spent most of the evening ogling what it promised below. The conversation wasn’t too bad, although intellectual topics eluded us. For some reason or other, I told her all about my struggles to get published, particularly my repeated failure to be longlisted for the Times’s short-story competition. I don’t know what brought it on, why it just spilled out over that rectangular plate of lobster tail. Maybe it’s because my subconscious has been secretly loath to confess these things to the fellow Duos who populate my life for fear they’ll think I’m an ultimate loser in the writing department. Or maybe her big, charming lavender eyes just loosened my tongue. She definitely radiated some sort of sympathetic inner grace, a quiet yet sensitive empathy. I left dinner feeling much happier than I had when I first arrived at the du Vin. Maybe it isn’t such a bad thing, after all, to be in the company of unsophisticated Mono girls with refreshingly simple existential outlooks because they are less likely to judge you for what you haven’t (yet) accomplished.
She’ll yield sooner or later. Especially if I keep giving her roses and ordering bottles of vintage Champagne. I did manage to impress her with the Krug ’77. Which was nice, because the Duo chicks I keep running into at Trinity are seldom impressed by anything. (NTS: We should do caviar the next time. I bet she hasn’t had caviar before. This might put me in pole position to conquer those delicious twin peaks.)
Another groan escapes my lips. Delicious twin peaks? This is going from bad to positively cringeworthy. I reach out to flip the page, but the start of the next diary entry (30 May 1995) catches my eye:
Anna May Winchester was most insistent over coffee this morning that I will be a politician someday:
—You have the air of a politician about you. I see it in your eyes.
—A politician? You must be kidding. I’ve always wanted to be a writer.
—And a writer you will be. But writing won’t give you the true satisfaction you crave.
—Really?
—Your eyes tell me that you’re a man who constantly needs to prove himself. Both for your own sake and for those around you. Politics might just fill that void within you.
—We’ve only known each other for a few days. How do you know a thing like that?
She chuckled before replying:
—We’re soul mates, Mark. Soul mates know what’s best for each other.
(NTS: Should seriously consider the possibility of becoming a politician someday. Anna may be right. If she’s able to work out such profound things about me in just a few days, it might well be written in the stars.)
I probably wouldn’t have been at my own damned press conference this morning if Anna had not uttered those words twenty years ago. It’s amazing how the effects of seemingly insignificant long-ago conversations continue to reverberate years later.