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I’ve ordered myself onion soup. In addition to this, I’ve also ordered some steak tartare. Also, some grilled Camembert on a freshly-baked baguette.
For drinks, I’ve managed to convince the cook to open up a bottle of wine for us, though it is during the middle of the workday. A nice red wine for both of us, though only about a quarter or a third of a glass. Not enough to create problems, but enough to have a taste. Something lovely for the discerning palate.
As I gather both trays of food once they’re assembled, and both glasses of wine perched on said trays, I bid my farewell. Express my gratitude to the chef, who returns it. As I pick a spot for us in an empty part of the café and sit down, Tommy’s eyes are glowing, as big as saucers. He looks about like I did the first time I ate food like this.
“That’s amazing, Melissa! That French! It sounds so cool. So beautiful.” He blushes, smiling shyly. “I used to think it sounded all hoity-toity.”
“Most people do,” I answer, not taking any offense. “Dennis would.” I hate everything about those two words. I wish I didn’t even have to bring him up.
Thankfully, Tommy seems not to care that I’ve just brought up my boyfriend. Boyfriend-not-boyfriend, as far as I’m concerned.
He says, “But not you. You make it sound awesome. Beautiful. Something amazing.” He stares at me like I’m a walking miracle. “If you don’t mind, I’d love to learn some sometime.” He blushes. “This might sound dumb, but if you weren’t against teaching me, I’d love to learn from you.”
This request warms my heart. And, more importantly, takes my heart and mind off Dennis — how unreachable and unfaithful he’s being to me and to our agreement. What our long-distance relationship is supposed to be. Especially since there’s been almost no relating to speak of.
“I don’t mind at all, Tommy. I’d love to teach you. And it’s not a dumb request.” I reach forward, almost touching his hand before I curl my fingers back into my hand. “I’m honored by it.” I pause, looking down at his food. He’s started to study it a bit. “That’s a cassoulet — a stew with beans and duck,” I say pointing it out. “That’s bread and grilled Camembert, a kind of cheese,” I say, pointing that out as well. “And that some chocolate cake,” I say, pointing out the last one as if he needs help deciphering what that is. A good pastry is known the world over, no matter what culture it comes from.
Tommy chuckles. “Figured as much,” he says. And now it’s my turn to think about how cute and wonderful he sounds. That chuckle is so playful and innocent, I almost want to bottle it so I can listen to it whenever I’m feeling sad or stressed. “This looks delicious, Melissa. Thank you for picking something out for me.”
“You’re welcome,” I say. “It’s not every day that I get the chance to impress someone with my French or food. Not cooked by me, of course, but…” I gesture helplessly, laughing.
“I get you,” says Tommy, locking eyes with me. When he does, I get that he really gets me. About the food, but more than that. About my feelings at this moment. He takes his first bite of the soup and makes a surprised, delighted sound. He takes another slurp, then another. “This is seriously amazing.”
He picks up a bit of the duck and pops it in his mouth. He makes another amazed sound, though this is like a delighted, muffled scream. “This is unbelievably good, too! Amazing! This is the best thing that came from a bird I’ve ever eaten,” he adds, and I can’t help but laugh.
“Good,” I say. “I’m pleased you like my choices.” I point to the cheese and freshly-sliced baguette. “You should have some of that before the cheese gets cold. It’s not as though it’s as good, once it cools down.”
Tommy happily obliges, picking up a piece of bread, and slicing off a bit of melted cheese. He puts it on the bread and puts it in his mouth with no fuss, but definitely enough “muss.” The cheese is another big hit, it seems. Tommy’s eyes practically roll back in his head with how good it is. I think I hear him say something along the lines of it being a thing of beauty, an eighth wonder of the world, but I can’t be sure. All I know is he’s more than happy to eat what I’ve picked for him, and that makes me happily start into my food: my soup and steak tartare.
But as I do, my heart begins to hurt more. Dennis has wandered in again, and I’m left thinking about what our relationship used to be like before he seemed to want nothing to do with me. Before he seemed to be avoiding me and making promises he doesn’t want to keep.
