Sunday, April 18, 2004
Hic
Quiet dinner organised by an old friend at Alloro after movie (very upmarket place, heart of London) several hours ago, having a good time. Laughing, reminiscing about JC days, mostly listening to her steady flow of chatter, and smiling quietly to myself as the Italian maître sommelier cosies up to my friend, to pointedly not stare at her rather bounteous (tonight, anyhow) cleavage (I watch him, waiting for it to happen... and he doesn't! Wa. He must like her.) and to tell her about Italy as she flirts unconsciously with him. Warm, and funny. This is comfortable. (And all the sweet Muscato Asti and Birbeck is probably contributing just a leetle. It probably still hasn't worn off yet...)
Flashback. Two years, many strangers making joyous noises. People who detest me in daily life, or quietly tolerate my presence pretending to love me, to be family. Presents, noise, party, noise. Cake, blow out candles, noise. She, the ex, at the centre of it all. Trying to draw me into the middle, Malcolm in the Middle, with her. The heart of attention. The heart of ? hypocrisy. My hypocrisy. I smile "graciously" back at the surrogate "parents" after receiving a particularly gruesome Lanven tie.
The food is gorgeous. Dessert is gorgeous. Mr Sommelier returns frequently to share a glass with us, and bring us ever more exotic sweet wines (somewhere along the way I begin to recoil in alarm. Not because I'm getting pleasantly drunk, pause, I wonder why I'm not, I've had enough to sink a small battleship by now, curse this liver of mine, but heck my friend's stone cold sober too - but then again she's a seasoned veteran... But, hic, to continue that nearly derailed train of thought, because the bill is probably going to put an astronomically vacuous black-hole in my wallet... ) and share his travel experiences with us (he generously includes me, sometimes. This guy is really nice!) as my friend innocently? asks him when he gets off work. When he starts. Which days he has off. What he does on his time off. He answers them all gamely - but doesn't push. Eh? Either he's gay, or he really, really likes her. Or else it's something about professional ettiquette? MM. Food for thought.
Evening ends. The bill a mere 60something quid between us. Mr Sommelier hasn't charged us for any of the wine. All that gorgeously light, deliciously crisp, mildewey sweet ambrosia. Free?!? Oh because it's your birthday, embarrassed look. What about the cake (complete with dimmin lights and train of singing italian waitors - hang head and look for place to bury it, groan, squirm, etcetc -- curse ye, Th!!!) ?? Ergh. No, we cannot accept, and tip him more than the price of the food. It works out to be about right. He protests vehemently as we twist his arm into submission.
She leaves her email as we leave. Smile.
Taxi home.
Head on pillow. Surrender to sleep.
Bzzt. Fade to black.
A good memory, last night. Thank you, Th.
(And WHY DOES MY BIRTHDAY NOT FALL ON THE WEEKEND THIS YEAR. What's the deal. It always has as far as I can remember. mutter. grumble. Unsympathetic celestial forces... working on birthday... inhumane...)
*****
Bzzt. Fade to light.
Eh?!?! It's only 3 hours later! Curses..... Wide Awake.
Wander around net, laugh quietly at Stranger's thoughts for a while, and check email and laugh a little more. Suddenly sleepy, and sated. Words, the final missing element. The last course. Dessert.
Reply? Later. Time to dissolve into gentle alcoholic haze.
Bzzzzzzzzzz.t
Quiet dinner organised by an old friend at Alloro after movie (very upmarket place, heart of London) several hours ago, having a good time. Laughing, reminiscing about JC days, mostly listening to her steady flow of chatter, and smiling quietly to myself as the Italian maître sommelier cosies up to my friend, to pointedly not stare at her rather bounteous (tonight, anyhow) cleavage (I watch him, waiting for it to happen... and he doesn't! Wa. He must like her.) and to tell her about Italy as she flirts unconsciously with him. Warm, and funny. This is comfortable. (And all the sweet Muscato Asti and Birbeck is probably contributing just a leetle. It probably still hasn't worn off yet...)
Flashback. Two years, many strangers making joyous noises. People who detest me in daily life, or quietly tolerate my presence pretending to love me, to be family. Presents, noise, party, noise. Cake, blow out candles, noise. She, the ex, at the centre of it all. Trying to draw me into the middle, Malcolm in the Middle, with her. The heart of attention. The heart of ? hypocrisy. My hypocrisy. I smile "graciously" back at the surrogate "parents" after receiving a particularly gruesome Lanven tie.
The food is gorgeous. Dessert is gorgeous. Mr Sommelier returns frequently to share a glass with us, and bring us ever more exotic sweet wines (somewhere along the way I begin to recoil in alarm. Not because I'm getting pleasantly drunk, pause, I wonder why I'm not, I've had enough to sink a small battleship by now, curse this liver of mine, but heck my friend's stone cold sober too - but then again she's a seasoned veteran... But, hic, to continue that nearly derailed train of thought, because the bill is probably going to put an astronomically vacuous black-hole in my wallet... ) and share his travel experiences with us (he generously includes me, sometimes. This guy is really nice!) as my friend innocently? asks him when he gets off work. When he starts. Which days he has off. What he does on his time off. He answers them all gamely - but doesn't push. Eh? Either he's gay, or he really, really likes her. Or else it's something about professional ettiquette? MM. Food for thought.
Evening ends. The bill a mere 60something quid between us. Mr Sommelier hasn't charged us for any of the wine. All that gorgeously light, deliciously crisp, mildewey sweet ambrosia. Free?!? Oh because it's your birthday, embarrassed look. What about the cake (complete with dimmin lights and train of singing italian waitors - hang head and look for place to bury it, groan, squirm, etcetc -- curse ye, Th!!!) ?? Ergh. No, we cannot accept, and tip him more than the price of the food. It works out to be about right. He protests vehemently as we twist his arm into submission.
She leaves her email as we leave. Smile.
Taxi home.
Head on pillow. Surrender to sleep.
Bzzt. Fade to black.
A good memory, last night. Thank you, Th.
(And WHY DOES MY BIRTHDAY NOT FALL ON THE WEEKEND THIS YEAR. What's the deal. It always has as far as I can remember. mutter. grumble. Unsympathetic celestial forces... working on birthday... inhumane...)
*****
Bzzt. Fade to light.
Eh?!?! It's only 3 hours later! Curses..... Wide Awake.
Wander around net, laugh quietly at Stranger's thoughts for a while, and check email and laugh a little more. Suddenly sleepy, and sated. Words, the final missing element. The last course. Dessert.
Reply? Later. Time to dissolve into gentle alcoholic haze.
Bzzzzzzzzzz.t
