An Empty Glass

He sits at the table, running his hands over the impossibly stiff, smooth white fabric of the cloth, and he uncorks a bottle of Merlot (the good stuff), pouring a generous glass (real crystal) which he sniffs then sets back down, untasted. The restaurant is dark now, the lights all dimmed or off completely, the doors locked, the staff long-since departed into the night, the customers as well. The aromas of the tasting menu—the duck, the onion, the satsuma— have begun to settle and fade, while the ever-present underlying notes of garlic, rosemary, thyme—the familiar and faithful—remain steady and quiet in the background. He looks around, and in spite of the darkness, he knows the shape of the wooden chairs, the silken surface of the bar, the expensive art (all original) positioned on the walls just-so (the designer said each piece had to be a “statement”, her lipstick shockingly red, her black hair cut sharp and short. “This sets the tone,” she’d said with an exaggerated sweep of her arm, a tasteful array of bangles clattering together on her wrist. He had balked at the price-tag for all these strange dashes of framed colour, these hazy shapes that wanted to tell him a story but fell short. It was the one luxury his investors had readily agreed-to. “Very necessary to elevate the ambiance,” they’d nodded sagely, their expensive suits tailored and perfect).

Gerhard had waited his entire life to have a suit cut that way. When he and his friends used to rob people on midnight street corners, he’d always take note of their clothing. Were the shoes polished? Was the Rolex real? Was the shirt pressed or wrinkled? He’d learned to tell the difference between off-the-rack discount and designer-made. It was easier to look at their clothes than it was in their eyes as they handed over wallets, jewellery, handbags. He grew-up rough, and until early manhood, it showed. Even in the daytime, he’d attracted nervous glances, calculating, scornful appraisals of his worn jeans, his faded, torn sweaters. Standing in the grocer’s one afternoon behind the exact kind of man he and his friends would typically target, he’d studied the clean lines of the mohair-clad shoulders, the thick gold wedding band on his hand, the groomed jawline where it met the starched shirt collar. And he’d felt ashamed of himself. Not for the switchblade in his pocket or the grubby greyness he could never seem to wash from his own shirts in the bathroom sink, not for the alcoholic father or the long-gone mother. No, he’d felt ashamed because all of these things seemed to anchor him to a legacy that would never permit him to wear designer suits or earn deferential head nods.

His purpose had changed after this realization— somehow he would rewrite his story. He would wear his history, but it would be under silk-wool jackets cut to his measurements, fine linen shirts buttoned with real silver cufflinks, respect collecting like currency in the expensive fabric of his trousers.

It had been relatively easy recognizing that food was his way out. Food matters to children who grow up without enough of it. This taught him to savour what he scrimped together, pairing odd flavours to make more out of less, and as he’d entered puberty, his pockets filled with stolen cash, it was the market stalls he’d wandered amongst, buying strange and foreign ingredients over the cheap and filling, choosing figs and real olive oil, tasting the flavours of countries he’d never heard of, watching unfamiliar-looking men and women cook and fry and spice. At seventeen, he’d managed to get in at a restaurant in the good part of town, just a dishwasher at first, but by the time his friends were doing their first stints in jail, he was chopping, and learning how to sauté, dice, and fillet. The head chef, an old fellow who’d seen it all, took a shine to the hard-gazed kid who was quietly forcing his way up the ranks, besting the more qualified staff from the right side of the tracks. The old chef knew hunger— had made a career out of satiating it. He’d recognized it in the young but steely eyes, the furrowed brow, the unhesitating hands. So he taught Gerhard, and in turn, Gerhard would be in the kitchen hours after closing, until dawn made the sky pink, practicing on his own then cleaning away any evidence of his efforts, returning a few short hours later for the dinner shift.

That was the first open door Gerhard had run through. A succession of similar doors had opened for him, and he’d spent his twenties, thirties and forties entering them (or breaking them down—whatever it took). And now, here he sat with his fist around a crystal stem, resting on the best linen table cloth, in the restaurant he’d named after himself, head chef and owner, on the most expensive street in the city, wearing a designer suit tailored just for him.

It had cost him almost everything to get this. His mean drunk of a father died alone in that dirty basement apartment in the old neighbourhood. Most of his friends were dead or serving time— he kept in touch, but not as much as he would have liked. His staff respected but also feared him— he ran them with the same unflinching ferocity he’d directed robberies with in his youth. The women he’d kept company with had inevitably slipped away when they realized they were little more than flesh to savour then forget. He had no son to do better by, no one to pass this newly-written legacy on to.

What would she be like, the woman who might’ve given him a son. How would it be to sit across from her now, at 3:42am, toasting another successful night for the business, talking about the cost of their boy’s tuition, his piano lessons, the type of man he would grow up to be. In fifty-six (almost seven) years, Gerhard had never thought about her, until tonight.

This was their first date. Unconventional, but fitting. “You don’t mind the late hour?” he smirked, regretting the sardonic note that crept in, his defenses already up. “Not in the least,” she answered brightly, as she sat down across from him. She wore a simple but elegant dress—dark blue, almost black, hanging just right on her soft curves. She was younger, but a tough life had made her wise. She had more book-smarts to Gerhard’s street-smarts, but neither of them found that to be a distance. Her hair was shoulder length, thick, golden-chestnut with a little wave to it. Her eyes were bright and dancing—they caught the dim light and made sparks with it. Her laugh was rich and maybe a shade deep, her face had the early tracing of lines from where she smiled often. She rested her hand on his for a moment, and it was impossibly gentle, warm. “Tell me what it’s like to be the great Gerhard?” she asked, her voice kind and sincere. He poured her a glass of Merlot and slid it towards her carefully. She sipped it appreciatively, and as he told her about himself— all those empty, long nights alone in kitchens when everyone else had gone home, the singular, relentless, almost-desperate focus with which he’d pursued his dream— he thought she probably tasted like the plum and dark cherry of the drink, and his heart beat a little harder. It was one of those dates you don’t believe can exist until you live it. The conversation flowed easily, but was never shallow. They traded truths about themselves with a sort of mutual eagerness to know and be known. There was an unspoken recognition—two paths that were always meant to intersect and run together.

He found himself picturing their new shared life, how it would look after this. The smell of her hair on his bedsheets, more and more of her belongings in his loft until they bought a place a short five months later, holiday photos at the beach, the positive pregnancy test, the town-hall wedding, Sunday afternoons where they’d smile across the table at each other, both wondering how they got so lucky. He saw it so clearly it made his chest ache, and he reached his hands down to the stark white tablecloth, smoothed it, picked up the almost-empty glass standing beside the now-empty bottle, and paused before downing the last sip. A soft rose colour was spilling across the sky, slowly turning it to dawn. It reminded him of all the new days he’d met alone in restaurants. He looked at the empty seat across from him, raised his drink to toast what was never there, and hesitated, just a heartbeat, before downing the rest of the wine, the moment tasting like plum and dark cherry, and nothing else.