Chapter 11: Metamorphosis

The combination of romantically dim lighting and six-foot-tall faux marble elephants initially made Jane difficult to spot. When a delicate wrist adorned with an enormous, clunky bracelet of sea glass emerged from behind a family of pachyderms, Daria nervously adjusted the tan cashmere sweater Quinn had given her ("It almost makes it look like you have boobs, Daria! You're welcome!") and walked toward Jane.

Passing flowering tropical plants and stone pools filled with petals, the flustered brunette noted her longtime companion was taking in her riding boots and knee-length black pencil skirt with an unidentifiable expression on her face. I imagine my face is similarly perplexing—whether due to the irrational fear of an elephant uprising and subsequent trampling, or because Jane looks like she should be emerging from the sea on a clamshell in that green silk tunic. Crap! I'm already standing in front of her. "You look," she glanced at Jane's deceptively nude-colored leggings, "nice."

Jane smirked, colored slightly, and shot back, "Thanks. And Lawndale would be riveted, if somewhat shocked, by the sight of you in that sweater." She winced visibly and shut her eyes, instantly realizing the implications of what she'd just said.

Daria suppressed a laugh. "Jane, it's okay. I'm finding…that I can't stop looking at you, either."

Opening her eyes, the embarrassed painter gave a self-conscious half-smile and tilted her head in the direction of the waiting table she'd reserved on the drive to Boston. "We might as well be awkward over there, where there's naan."

"Lead the way to the flattest of breads."

Throughout the eating of naan, the inspection of menus, and well into the meal itself, the conversation continued to limp along like a nervous duck with a missing flipper. Jane had run out of questions to ask about her friend's job at the newspaper, and Daria was now well into her second glass of water due to a dire miscalculation regarding the spiciness of an innocent-looking curry.

All of a sudden, a resounding clang rang out and was quickly accompanied by the expensive sounds of shattering glassware. Daria paused in her frantic hydration session to observe the contained chaos unfolding at a nearby table, where an elderly woman had just sprung from her chair to escape a flood of white wine. Her dapper companion wore a shocked expression and tikka masala sauce.

A sharply-dressed manager arrived and began berating the sheepish waiter. "Darn it, Bruce, you gotta get your head in the game! This old guy is covered in sauce!"

"Pardon me, but I'm only sixty-fo—"

"Sit tight, buddy, I'm talking to Bruce."

Daria saw her friend's eyes widen as she slowly turned to face her companion. "Oh my god. Isn't that…?"

"Steve the Steam Shovel, as Kevin and his compadres referred to him?" Daria squinted and took another look. "Yup."

Jane was soon consumed by an unstoppable fit of laughter. "Do you remember," she could hardly breathe, "when he decided to 'carb load' in study hall the day of a big game? He ate a dozen hard-boiled eggs—"

"Which are low in carbohydrates." Daria smirked, amused.

"And then," Jane smacked the table for emphasis, "he threw up in the trash

can—"

Daria was laughing now, too. "And he ate twelve more eggs in science class."

The two old friends laughed (and in Jane's case, also snorted occasionally) for several minutes until both were finally able to take a few deep breaths. Afterwards, their conversation found its familiar rhythm—with inside jokes shared and cynical commentary traded—until the staff began extinguishing the small oil lanterns on each table. The end of the evening found Jane and Daria holding hands as they walked down the starlit sidewalk, comfortable with this new metamorphosis.