valentina rose
Legacy Name: valentina rose

After a while doing this, I learned how to read people.

They say Paris is the city of love but I think you'd be surprised at the lack of it in the dating scene. I can tell the minute they walk in whether or not they want to be there.

You learn to notice the little things: the lipstick encroaching past the lip line that says “I don’t care,” the tapping of fingers on the table that says “I’m listening but not really,” and the wandering of the eyes that says, “I’m here but I really don’t want to be.”

I see it all.

I see the distasteful blind dates that foster anticipation and eventually disappointment. I see the lust-filled dates that last less than thirty minutes before the couple leaves, groping each other and nearly forgetting to pay the bill. I see the awkward, boring dates that involve the couple staring at their food the whole time as if it had something extremely interesting to say.

And, yes, they’re awful, but they’re an integral part of the dating scene. At least I get a little bit of entertainment from observing their ridiculous, superficial rituals.

But then there are the extremely rare dates. The once in a blue moon, genuinely happy-to-be-there-dates where the couples smile over their food at each other and find spending time with their partner to be worth gulping down the awful food we serve. You can see it in their eyes. And that’s all I’ve ever really wanted.

The bell tinkles as the couple walks through the door, clutching on to each other like dependent children. I suppress a laugh. Their clinginess says yes but their eyes scream no. I already know that they're just starting off, slowly easing out of the honeymoon stage, and will spend the whole dinner trying their best to find something, anything at all, to critique each other on. Maybe he chews with his mouth open. Maybe she talks too loud. By the time they’ve gotten halfway through their entrees they’ll be foaming at the mouth but they’ll leave the restaurant holding onto each other if only for appearance's sake.

"Table for two, please."

"Your server will be with you in just a minute."

I wave Adrienne over, fighting the overwhelming urge to roll my eyes at them.

She walks towards us, wiping her hands on her apron, and escorts them to their table, leaving me in blissful relief.

The bell tinkles again.

A man in his late forties walks in with a woman young enough to be his daughter on his arm. Sugar daddy, no doubt about it. It’s more common than you might think.

Halfway through dinner his hand will be on her leg and she'll be drunk out of her mind. They'll leave together, she stumbling and holding onto him for support, eyes glassy and lipstick smeared. Once they are a safe distance from the restaurant and the public eye she’ll step out of her red heels and carry them in one hand, swaying dangerously and burping up alcohol bubbles. He’ll assure her that she’ll be just fine, but would she consider spending the night at his apartment? All the while her dress strap will be slipping off her shoulder, revealing a finely shaped collarbone, and he will lick his lips when she looks away.

I see right through him.

"Table for two," he says, without sparing me the courtesy of eye contact.

"Your server will be right with you."

He's taking advantage of her, and it's so obvious that it makes me angry. But I don't want to lose control. I can't lose this job.

Adrienne comes back over and seats them, thankfully.

The bell tinkles overhead again.

I glance upward, expecting to see another dysfunctional couple, but find myself struggling to breathe when I see the man. He’s been here before, always with the same girl. There was not much about her for me to read – rich, beautiful, and shallower than a papercut. I could tell by looking in his kind, sad eyes that he struggled to overlook her lack of depth.

I remember him being very polite. He would smile at me kindly and order his food, voice so low and hard to hear over the roar of the crowd that I would have to lean close, his breath tickling my ear. He would order for her too, as she sat in the far corner of the booth looking at her phone, lips in a glossy pout. She was one of the girls who would sneak a Chihuahua around in her purse.

I realize that I haven’t seen them here for a month or more.

My breath is hitching in my throat. I can't believe anyone could be this beautiful, there's no way -- and I'm telling myself, no, no, no, don't do this to yourself, don't set yourself up for failure because his stunning girlfriend will walk in behind him and it'll break your heart, no don't –

"Just one at the bar please, Rose?"

I imagine that my heart stops beating for a second. He knows my name. I know he frequents the restaurant (or used to, at least) but he knows my name, and I’m not wearing my nametag — haven’t worn it for weeks – because my manager somehow lost it when the kitchen was being renovated.

Just one at the bar. Not a table for two. I could wonder what happened to his pretentious girlfriend but I don’t want to trouble myself with the thought of her and I’m even more reluctant to trouble him with it.

Then I say, as measuredly as I can,

"Right over here, sir."

I lead him toward the crowded bar, breaking the sea of people apart. My heart pumps madly as if it's waiting for me to embarrass myself, and people turn their heads as I walk past them.

"Rough night?" I force myself to ask him, looking at his downcast eyes.

He smiles sadly at me for a bit and then says,

"Not anymore."

Then he pauses and it all comes flooding out in a rushing babble of words.

“I know that I used to come here all the time, with her. But that was a long time ago. I got hurt. I don’t know if I can do it again but I want to try. I can’t stop thinking about you, Rose. I haven’t since I first laid eyes on you.”

I try to say something but I feel paralyzed, physically incapable of doing so.

“Tomorrow, after your shift, I’d like to take you to dinner somewhere less crowded. Would you give me a chance?”

I might be imagining it but his face looks a bit red.

And all I can say is,

“Hopefully they serve better food than we do here.”

I'm smiling like an idiot, smiling because I'm imagining it in my head, that rare, genuinely-happy-to-be-there date with this man who looks so broken but so eager to be fixed. I'm smiling because I know that we could be that couple, not one of the dysfunctional ones, but one of the once-in-a-blue-moon ones that smile at each other over their food and talk quietly and drink some but not too much until they laugh and walk out hand in hand, not too close together but not far apart either. I'm smiling because that's all I've ever wanted.
story by User not found: khan. profile by sugarpill.