Valentine's Day Dinner

VALENTINE’S DAY DINNER

Milo sat hunched over a cherry stained table in the living room of his one bedroom apartment. His pupils pulsed with each surge of creativity, legs ensnarling the amber coloured chair he sat upon. Milo’s right hand, his writing hand, brought the plastic ballpoint pen he held to a nervous breaking point. His thin lips twitched, mouthing the words of the scene being furiously scratched in blue ink over the pages of his notebook.

His girlfriend, Georgina--whom he had met in a drama class--sat beside him. She tried not to look directly at him having been witness to countless concluding scenes that, in their final moments, were destroyed, torn up by Milo’s self-doubts. Instead, she tried to distract herself and inspected her recently polished fingernails. Disconcertingly, the cherry red glare and gleaming smoothness could not hold her attention for very long. Thankfully, she could sense that he was almost finished as his hand began to slow.

“Okay,” he said leaning back, shaking off a cramp. “Well, it’s done…I guess.”

He offered her a smile but she could always tell when he was acting.

“Can I have a look?” she asked in her smoky voice.

He slid the notebook towards her.

Peering down, she studied the indecipherable crooked lines like a nurse reading a doctor’s note, her lips parting to reveal a smile. It was a short scene but the content was strong. She imagined what it would look like, how she would play her part, what was required. “Right,” she said, “let’s go.”

With a clink of their wine glasses, they knocked back the rest of their drinks, hurried out of the apartment and hailed a passing cab. In the backseat, they began to rehearse their scene for the restaurant.

The hostess was flustered from too many calls, too many questions, and too many expectations. It was Valentine’s Day. Jules, the headwaiter and veteran of Fazio’s had warned her, that there would be some good days and some bad days.

“Today,” he’d told her, “well, is just gonna be awful.”

While she stared down in bafflement at the reservation list, Milo and Georgina walked in. Wow, she thought. The young man looked like a polished, taller version of James Dean dressed in a classic three-piece suit, slicked black hair, and showcasing a coolness that need not be declared. His date looked like a California Girl with golden shoulder-length sun waved locks. She wore a maroon silk dress that shimmered under the light and a diamond encapsulated black cardigan.

“Hello,” the hostess said, her voice quivering. “Welcome to Fazio’s. Do you have a reservation?” she heard herself squeak.

“Yes, Milo Adams.”

His deep voice and stoic grey eyes seemed enough to buckle the hostess’s knees. With her eyes wide, a beaming smile, she looked up at him and, even though she hated his date, the hostess also found herself craving her friendship. “Right this way.”

She led them under a dimmed crystal chandelier and into the quaint Italian restaurant. There were fourteen tables, all decorated with white-laced cloth underneath crystal vases with a single red rose and adjoining tea-light. On the left wall, three large mirrors reflected pastel blues, lush greens, bright yellow and reds of varied abstract paintings on the opposite wall. Over the sound system, twinkling piano notes softly filled the room. It was the most intimate of places to spend Valentine’s Day; a place where romance, if not present, would surely be born.

Milo and Georgina were seated in the middle of the restaurant. Next to them sat a young couple that had been dating for three months. The young man nervously rubbed his brow, feeling doubt as to whether the restaurant was too much, or too little. His date, meanwhile, was afraid that he was going to slip the “L” word into the evening and chewed her bottom lip, her eyes intently focused on the flickering tea-light.

To Georgina’s right sat another younger couple who had not yet slept together. The guy, wearing a t-shirt two sizes too small revealing a barbed-wire bicep tattoo, was convinced this was the night they were finally going to “get it on.” His eyes radiated with this presumption as he sucked his teeth and took stock of his date’s chest. Despite noticing his lowered gaze, she was more preoccupied with the dessert menu having just pledged an allegiance to a New Year’s resolution that the chocolate tiramisu looked to destroy.

On Milo’s left, a slightly older couple sat in silence. Married a decade, the husband had at least done something special this year, which had been pleasantly surprising to his wife. It had also meant a sudden rush to find a babysitter, a scurried search through a disorganized closet, and a deep sadness at the favourite dress that no longer fit. He’d tried to reassure her with effusive flattery but his positivity had run dry. Now the only light between them was their blinking cell-phones as they scrolled for something to discuss.

Seated behind them was a couple in their early sixties. They had been celebrating at Fazio’s for years, most of which had ended in brushing their teeth and snoring like bears from too much wine. Lost in the autumnal colours of a painted sunrise, she hoped this year would stand out against all the others that had blended together like the indecipherable shapes of the abstract paintings. Meanwhile, her husband clenched his right knee, trying to stop his foot from thumping in case she heard the rattle of erection pills in his pocket.

At the far end of the restaurant, a couple--who had been together for five years as common-laws--looked over their menus. He had seen no reason to legitimize their union but was becoming nervous, and for good reason. Restaurants have been the birthplace of many long-lasting, loving marriages and yet also, contrastingly, soul destroying ones. For this reason, this man, together with the other men in the restaurant, were acutely aware of each other’s presence; aware someone could be proposing this very night.

The waiter, oblivious to the unpleasantness, strode towards Milo's table with the ease of someone born in the trenches of hospitality warfare. No amount of expectations, pretentiousness, indecisiveness or even cheapness made him weary. Unlike the new hostess who already appeared worn down, he was content in his chosen profession and placed two waters before the striking couple.

“Good evening,” he said. “My name is Jules and I will be your server this evening. Let me tell you about tonight’s specials.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Georgina said, her voice sultry.

Jules was enthralled. He blinked rapidly, trying to come to terms with his enchantment but couldn’t help but focus on her finger gently tapping her pursed full lips as she considered the menu. Star-struck, his pulse quickened, beads of sweat trickled down his back.

“We’ll start with a bottle of merlot.”

“Right away,” Jules gushed, cheeks flush. He turned to leave and, like the hostess, felt his knees almost buckle before galloping off towards the kitchen.

Georgina traced the waiter’s path away from their table thinking things were going well so far but, as she looked over at Milo, she was concerned to find him drumming his fingers on the table with one hand, while biting the nails of the other.

“It’s overdramatic,” he mumbled, shaking his head, “I don’t know if I can do this.”

She reached over, placing her hands on his. “It’s supposed to be overdramatic.” Her teeth shone a brilliant white against her rouge lipstick. He nodded, inhaled deep, filling his lungs with confidence.

Jules returned with the bottle of wine before scampering away again, completely forgetting to let them sample the wine first.

Milo coughed, clearing his throat. “Georgina,” he said, louder than he'd meant and poured her some wine, “Before we begin the evening, there’s something that I would like to ask.”

She stared at her glass of wine, twirled it, and lifted it to her nose before tipping it to her mouth for a sip. Blackberries, dark stone fruit, the slight taste of cocoa ruminated in her senses. Licking her lips, she gazed over her glass towards him. “Yes,” she said with measured exertion.

Milo’s chair screeched on the floor as he pushed it back and stood up, drawing the attention of the room. Milo could swear he heard someone squeal near the back of the restaurant: “Nooo!”

Lowering to one knee, his audience was in captive tow. Smoothing back his hair, he reached into his pocket and opened the black box revealing a diamond encrusted gold ring. He stared into Georgina’s eyes, waiting; waiting until the sound of creaking chairs filled the background as people edged forward to get a better look.

“Georgina,” he said, “will you make me the happiest man in the Universe and marry me?”

Georgina raised her hands, covering her face. The groan of creaking chairs grew louder; veins bulged forth from craning necks and hearts thumped rapidly in the chest cavities of her audience. Enthralled, almost filled with a murderous impatience for a response, they held their breaths, watching as she lowered her hands into her lap and stared into the eyes of the man on one knee.

“No,” she said.

A collective gasp--followed by sighs--ran through the room--none more pronounced than the man in the common-law relationship who giggled like a child with relief. Stunned, the rest of the couples could only look on.

Georgina stood up, her green eyes glowing fiercely against the tea-light. Smiling thinly, she lifted her glass of merlot cheering each couple. Much to their disbelief, she then poured the wine over the James Dean-like character's head.

Any admiration or attraction from the onlookers turned quickly to hate.

Shockingly, the young man before them simply kept his head bowed, the wine dripping from the end of his nose and forming into a small puddle on the floor. His date, her hips shuffling side to side, strode out of the restaurant while he remained on one knee, no one able to move towards him in sympathy. They all just looked on with uncertainty, until finally, he stood up.

Like Georgina, he took in the room with his gaze but, unlike his date, his eyes were puffy, making more than a few hearts drop.

“I’m sorry,” he said and walked out of the restaurant taking all the pressures and expectations of the night with him; leaving his self-doubts behind.

After several moments of confusion, the couples looked at each other for possible explanations and, for the first time on Valentine’s Day, real conversation began.