The host turned to lead us to a table. I was about to enter behind Erik when I realized due to the fact that certain self important people don't want lung cancer I had to put out my cigarette.
I turned back to the door to see another sight out of a fairy tale or an old movie; he was holding the door open for me; waiting for me to enter before him. I looked at him suspiciously as I walked through the door frame. What was this guy's deal? He had hardly said two words to me but he was treating me like a hopeless romantic would treat his girlfriend. Did he think he could substitute strange acts of chivalry for actual conversation?
We sat down at a table for two in the back corner of the restaurant which was fine with me because all I really wanted was to eat. Actually, under any other circumstances this might have been romantic, but not with him. With him it was awkward.
The host left us menus and I quickly took mine up; glad to have a distraction. However, the thin barrier of laminated paper was no match for his piercing gaze. I quickly looked up at him and then down again at my menu.
God, what the hell was I doing? I was a grown woman, not a sixth grader flirting with a boy in the cafeteria.
"Do you know what you are ordering already?" I asked, glancing at his untouched menu.
"No," he said, and he stared at me like I had two heads. I tried to ignore him and looked back down at the menu but it was impossible.
"So…Erik?" he nodded; I knew that was his name but it seemed like the thing to say anyway, "When did you get to New York?"
He stared at me, "Why do you wear your hair that way?' he asked bluntly, and I immediately raised my hand to my shoulder length honey blond hair. What the hell was this guy talking about? My hair was stylish, or at least it should be for how much I paid to get it cut. It was layered, parted on the side and immaculately straightened.
"Excuse me?" I asked irritated, "There is nothing wrong with my hair, and even if there was I don't think you should be one to judge," he had some kind of slicked back look going on with these crazy sideburns; not a good idea fashion wise.
He looked away from me for the first time and I wondered if I had said something harsh. He had attacked me first…or perhaps he was not yet familiar with New York charm?
And then it hit me. I felt like I had been in an elevator which had just dropped ten floors. I could not believe I had missed it before as it had been a favorite pastime of the girls and me; spotting hair pieces.
His hair was not real, there must have been something wrong with him, probably the same reason the one side of his face was so disfigured.
There was an awkward pause and the waiter came over.
"Are you ready to order?" and by the tone of his voice he really wanted up to hurry up so we could leave.
"No," I said quickly.
"Could you please try to be timely? We have a lot of people waiting and..."
"Seriously, Buckingham Palace," I threatened, and the waiter hurried away.
"I only asked because where I come from women all where their hair long," he said this unexpectedly; it was the largest sentence he had uttered all night. I should have rewarded his effort with something civil, but it seemed I was not in the mood.
"Where are you from? The nineteenth century?" I said sarcastically, and had I know more I would have realized the irony of the situation.
"I do not think your hair looks unattractive, I just wanted to know why you wear it that way," He said, and for the first time it sounded like he was really trying to start a conversation.
"Well…I wear it this way because it is easier to take care of than long hair,"
"Why do you wear those shoes?" He asked. Apparently he had had enough of just observing his new world and now he wanted some answers.
"Because I am a masochist," I said immediately, rubbing my sore feet under the table; he just stared at me, "Because I like the way they look,"
"But they hurt your feet,"
"That's right,"
"And you still wear them,"
"Correct,"
He looked perplexed and I had to laugh. Men had been trying to understand the love between a woman and her shoes for years; no one ever got it.
"The truth is," I told him, "It can be very hard to walk in a single girl's shoes, so sometimes we need some extra special ones to make the walk a little more fun,"
He seemed to find this statement boarder line amusing because I saw a hint of a smile before I looked down at my menu again. His desire to talk had run away again so I had to start a new topic. "
So really, what brings you to New York?" I asked him, "New job? Adventurous sprit? Political asylum?" my gut suddenly clenched as I thought about what I would do if he answered political asylum.
"I don't know why I am here," he said, and since I did not know anything to the contrary, I thought he was one of those damn 'what is the meaning of life' people, and then I understood; the blank, sad look, the listless way of speaking…
"Broken heart?" I asked knowingly. He stared at me for a moment then nodded.
People are always telling you those frightening statistics, like every four seconds some one dies, or every twelve seconds someone gets hit by a car, or someone's house burns down or something. I have a theory that every minute, someone's heart gets broken.
"So tell me about her," I said. I was sure that he would at least want to vent about the woman who had caused him pain, and that could break the awkward tension between us.
"You want me to…tell you about her?" He asked confused; men are not as used to going over every detail of their failed relationships as women are.
"Yes, what did the bitch do?" I asked, taking a bite out of a roll on the table.
"She, well she…" He began uncertainly, and then he plunged on, "She left me for another man,"
I nodded, "Were you married?"
"Well, not really, we were…engaged, sort of,"
"The same thing happened to me," I said, which it had, in fact I think the same thing had happened to everyone, "Let me guess, she left you for someone younger with more money and blond hair?" Man or woman, when they leave you, it is for someone younger, with more money and blond hair.
"How did you know?" He stared at me amazed.
I laughed "Classic modern fairy tale," I leaned forward, "Let me tell you a secret," I whispered, "Romance is dead,"
The waiter came back again and this time we were ready to order. After he hurried off to no doubt rush our dinner so we would leave. There was a brief pause in which I sipped water out of the glass on the table.
"Did you say the same thing had happened to you?" He asked me suddenly.
I nodded, "I was seeing this guy for five years, we get engaged, and then two weeks before the wedding he runs off to Hawaii with his secretary," I could barley retell this story without throwing something, and even now, after three years of friend therapy I still wanted to hurl my water glass into the wall a little bit.
"I guess it was for the best that I never married him," I continued, "he showed his true colors as a jerk just in time, if we had gotten married I bet we would be divorced by now, but still…" I realized I was telling this man I hardly knew some very personal things about my love life. Usually complaining about lost love is not something you want to do when you first meet a man, but this was not a normal date. Besides, there was something about him…I felt like he understood.
"The question is still there," I fiddled with the rim of my glass as I spoke, "Even though he was an ass hole, why didn't he love me? Why wasn't I the one?" I shook my head, "Pathetic right?"
"No," Erik responded more quickly and firmly than he had all night. Erik felt like one of those people who had just gotten his weight guessed correctly at a carnival. I had said exactly what he was thinking.
100 plus years might have gone by, but dating, relationships, and love were still the same.
"Why would someone leave you?" he asked, and again he somehow managed to avoid sounding trite when he said this.
"Because she was young, and platinum blond, and from a rich family, and had a body like a model," I said bitterly, wondering where that damn waiter was so I could order a chardonnay.
"But…you are young…and blond, and you seem rich; I don't really know what a model is, but if it means you look beautiful than you look like a model,"
Only this man, only this strange man could say that and not sound like a New York sleaze. Something about him, the sad, pitiful look in his eyes that suggested he did not quite understand love, made me think; damn.
It took me a moment to process this statement. Everyone calls you beautiful, gorgeous, hot…but not all sound like they mean it. I had never had someone I just met tell me I looked beautiful and really mean it.
"Did I say something wrong?" Erik was sure he had. Why else would my face be so red? He was sure he must have said something very stupid.
"No…no you didn't,"