La Fortuna Degli Sciocchi

Image copyright of Mike Barr.

It’s an uneasy feeling: stepping in from the cold winter night, the last wisps of smoke escaping from my mouth as my eyes struggled to adjust to the dim ambient lighting of the small room. The rows of aged oak dining sets and deep burgundy leather booths greeted me with a promise of a good meal, completely unlike the hostess, whose deadpan expression and evident pessimism only aided in harnessing my stomachache. He was waiting in here somewhere, I was sure of it; I wondered if he preferred a booth, or if he was already seated at the old bar in the side room. Yet, I wouldn’t have recognized him either way, even if I had made eye contact with him.

“For Santos?” I asked the hostess, to which she reciprocated with a half-hearted glance and a pointed finger aiming towards one of the booths in the back of the dining room. My saunter towards the table resembled that of a walk of shame; my legs shook slightly with each step and I hung my head low, it was a walk I did often, but had grown quite accustomed to. It suited me well, as if it were my own custom tailored Brioni.

“Jon?” I questioned once I reached the end of the table, peering up from the floor to meet the smile of a man that must’ve been in his late twenties, or possibly his early thirties. I held my breath, shocked that he had been hiding behind a blacked out profile picture. His brown hair was slicked back and shaved on the sides, and his caramel complexion boasted a radiant glow that served to highlight the ever-present glimmer in his hazel eyes. His goatee and the chest hair peeking up from the collar of his floral button up shirt reminded me of his age, but in the moment I didn’t think twice of it. “He’s not OLD, old,” I thought, as if attempting to convince myself.

“That’s me,” he confirmed with a wink, looking me up and down as I cautiously wiggled myself into the booth across from him. He commented on my corduroy jacket, and likened it to one his grandfather used to wear. I wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be a compliment, but I blushed and said thank you either way. Small talk felt challenging then; it was almost as if I was being quizzed and I was desperate in trying to come up with responses that wouldn’t bore him and drive him away. I wasn’t used to this game; I could usually get away with playing along and faking my interest, but it all felt different this time.

I absorbed every word that jumped off his tongue as if I were an improv artist planning out my ways to progress the scene. By the time the waitress came around to take our orders, I hadn’t even cared enough to skim through the menu. I’d become far too preoccupied with other concerns than getting a free meal.

“I’ll take a glass of merlot, and the chicken parm. Plus whatever they want,” Jon said, adjusting the waitress’ attention towards me with a smirk.

“Uhhhh,” I breathed nervously, pretending to scan my eyes over the menu, although the words seemed to read nothing but gibberish in the moment. “I’ll take the spaghetti,” I claimed, passing the menu back to the waitress. “And just a water will be great.” While I was never one to reject free alcohol, and as much as a glass of wine would have helped me, this seemed to be a respectable restaurant, and I didn’t need to risk a close inspection of my ID on a first date. The date of birth stamped on the ID may have said I was over 21, but anyone with working eyes would surely be smart enough to make out the truth.

Jon sipped his glass of wine slowly as we emptied the bread basket, making sure to miss no opportunity to break the occasional silence with questions about my job and school life. I hated talking about myself so much when he was clearly the more interesting person at the table; he had undoubtedly experienced more of life than I had as a college student serving coffee, but I didn’t have the confidence to steer the conversation and ask him anything. A part of me liked it like this; I didn’t know enough about Jon to tell if he was really engaged, or just wanting to fill the silence to avoid the awkward tension in the air. Occasionally he would stop to make a joke, and his deep, rumbling laughter would only plunge me further down into my pit of insecurity. By the time the food arrived, I was surprised that he was still sitting across from me, boasting that goddamn charming smile.

The conversation dulled once our mouths were preoccupied with al-dente noodles and robust marinara sauce, though he would still stop eating every once in a while to meet my glance with a reassuring gaze. Harnessing the strength of the carbs I had just eaten, I inquired the first question I had been able to muster all night, “Do you go on dinner dates often?”

He chuckled softly, covering his sauce-coated mouth while attempting not to choke on a bite of chicken. It pissed me off how he was still attractive, even then. If my nerves weren’t obvious before, he had surely noticed them now. I gulped down more water and tried to ignore my embarrassment. “Not very often,” he said while wiping the corners of his mouth with his cloth napkin, “Not everyone you meet through an app deserves to be wined and dined.” He laughed again, making me melt again every so slightly.

My hands grew clammy, and the aged, yellow lighting hanging over our table made note of the beads of sweat accumulating all across my forehead. I just kept smiling at him, taking frequent bites to distract from the reality in front of me. In all honesty, the food wasn’t as good as the vintage decor had implied, but I didn’t even mind. He was at least eight years older than me, and way out of my league, but I also didn’t mind. All I could focus on were his eyes and that enticing smile, just pulling me deeper and deeper within this connection that had already begun to play itself out in my foolish head.

He ordered us each a slice of cake for dessert, which I’ve always considered to be the surefire signal of a successful dinner date. Unlike with my pasta, I made an attempt to eat my cake as slow as I possibly could, savoring every last bit of the decadent frosting and pastry in front of me. I wasn’t quite ready for the night to end, although I knew it was only inevitable by the time the waitress carried off the check with Jon’s debit card in hand. When we both had finished our dishes and the conversation ceased, Jon lifted himself up from the booth, tossed on his jacket, and offered me his hand to guide me out of the dining room and into the winter air once more.

I thanked him for his kindness and wrapped my arms around his shoulders, gripping his leather jacket with my palms ever so slightly as he held me close to himself. I breathed in the scent of his woodsy cologne, and for a second I wished that he would never let go. When we broke apart, he lent me his wonderful smile and said, “Alright bud; I gotta get going home to the family. Maybe I’ll see you around sometime?”

“Yeah, maybe,” I responded, my heart dropping violently as it adjusted back to reality. Goodbyes were usually the easiest part of any date, but I just couldn’t force myself to look away from Jon as he got into his black Mercedes and drove away. I’d gotten what I’d set out for, yet was now left yearning for something that was completely out of reach. I’d managed to convince myself that he cared about me, when he knew nearly nothing about me, and I’d only come to learn his name.

Maybe that’s what made the fantasy seem so real; I simply didn’t know enough for me to distinguish otherwise. I walked back to the bus stop and sat on the cold chrome bench, staring blankly towards the street as the cars zoomed past me.