His cellphone beeps what to me seems to be the fifteenth time during this birthday lunch out I had planned for us so carefully. I’d had to juggle times and, in fact dates so our time together could coincide with his insane schedule that barely permitted us any time together.
Sitting here across from him, I’d half hoped we could recapture the closeness we’d had last summer on the San Juan Islands when we’d first met, a closeness that had cemented us together. It had been a glorious summer with walks together on the beach, visiting the smallish towns, riding the ferry to the other islands, making love in the quaint and high priced BNB room we ended up sharing. We synced beautifully. Or so I thought.
My annoyance increases now, as waiters flit by us to tend to the throng of increasingly demanding diners. Then yet another beep from Scott’s cell placed carefully at the side of his empty plate. He hasn’t even turned it off. The bastard.
Nevertheless, I smile while he takes the call which is thankfully brief. When he hangs up, I whisper, “Happy birthday, babe!”
He shoots me a fake crestfallen look and mutters, “I just had to be born on one of the busiest stock market days. Shit.”
But I know he’s itching to get back to the trading floor downtown.
A waiter finally graces our table, his white apron stained with what looks like wine or grape juice. He hurriedly chants, “And what can I get for you today?”
We chant our answers back to him and he sails away. Scott magnanimously slips his cellphone into his pocket. I hope fervently that he’s turned it off.
We both look towards the kitchen and see meals of the restaurant’s famous food being put on the metal counter for the waiters to take away.
Scott mentions, “Damn. I should’ve ordered that.” He tips his head toward a Philly cheesesteak with fried onion rings waiting to be picked up. I ruefully realize the shrimp salad I’d ordered doesn’t even measure up. I, too, would’ve liked to indulge. Oh, well.
Amazingly, our waiter then shows up with the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and two wine glasses, one with a smudge of lipstick on the rim. My glass.
He looks away as Scott lifts his glass to take a sip and then nods at the distracted waiter who rushes off.
Scott seems distracted as well. Trust a stock trader. Our hemming and hawing is forced because his mind’s on the fluctuating market these days.
Our meal arrives quicker than expected and even though I’m disappointed with what I ordered, I’m grateful that we might just have something to talk about.
“How is it?” I say to him, indicating the Monte Cristo that he’s just taken a bite out of. He swallows and takes a slug of wine and smiles at me. “It’s actually quite good, Suze. Perfect birthday sandwich!”
I giggle and tell him, “I should’ve ordered that.” I lift up a forkful of the uninspired shrimp salad to show him. He smiles and tells me, “Here, babe, have half of mine!”
“Give me only a bite,” I say. After all, he’s the man in the family. Plus, I’m watching my weight.
We are relaxed now, just as I’d hoped. I’m thinking of ordering a second bottle of Sauvignon Blanc
so we can share it after eating. While I’m looking around for our waiter, his phone beeps yet again. The bastard hasn’t even turned it off.
It always ends up like this, but this time, there’s a horrible twist.
Scott jumps up as he listens to the caller. Then he shouts, “No! It was fine earlier!”
Then he glares at me and shouts, “I can’t believe you dragged me here on the absolute worst day you could! My client just lost millions!”
And he storms out.
At first I’m shocked. Then I give a wilting glance at the other diners whose meals Scott’s just disturbed. Then I wonder if I have enough money to pay for our own meal. Scott’s the one who has our credit cards.
I decide right then that I’ll finish the rest of the wine at my leisure and pull out my cellphone to while away the time. I’m aware that a few diners are whispering about poor little old me.