Wed. 9 pm. San Francisco Downtown.
Whitewashed exposed brick walls, high ceilings, and a sculpture of individually hung light bulbs float above me. I sit down at the smooth marble bar with a large mirror hanging overhead so that I may see the crowd behind my back. The guests congregate around the dark wood communal table that holds center to the smaller two and four tops dispersed throughout the restaurant.
This is San Francisco chic at its finest. Clean cut men, fine tailored suits, mixed patterned apparel that doesn’t match but makes sense to my senses. Business women wear simple pony tails and subtle red lip gloss so as not to distract from the deal being presented on the table. But they will close the deal, their Birkin bags tell me so.
I watch lady bartender, who’s in law school, prepare my drink of gin, cucumber and orange flower water. “This is called the Always and Only,” she tells me. That sounds like a lot of commitment, but I’m flattered, thank you.
I told Los Angeles I needed to get away for a few days. Without much notice, I just packed my bags and left. We didn’t fight or anything. Nothing like that. Actually we’ve been really good. I don’t know what’s going on.
It’s not you LA, it’s me.
I need some space to think about our future, my future, where I see this relationship going. Just a few months ago, I almost moved to New York and, although I’m glad I didn’t, I feel like this is my time to explore my options. Play the field for awhile. I know you always tell me I want what I can’t have. I know, I know. I know you say San Francisco is great and all but…
Look it doesn’t matter. I need space to clear my head. If you didn’t let me go, I would resent you. If we are meant to be, then I will come back. I want you to let me miss you.
To the left of me at the bar, a handsome older man sits beside me with his daughter. I think it’s his daughter. I hope. What is it with men and women half their age? I swear…oh, wait, it’s his daughter. Never mind.
My taste buds hold hands to sample the blend of tangy, spicy and fresh olives marinated in orange, chili and mint. My teeth then sink into the tender lamb shank that falls right off the bone. It sleeps in a sauce mixed with onions, marcona almonds and pomegranate. No need for salt in this house.
Everything is perfect. Not a detail unlooked, not a sip unliked and not a bite untouched. The crowd progressively gets louder, and I sit alone at the bar watching the lives of others. For a split second, I feel lonely.
The business women hand over the papers and shake hands with their male counterparts. Success, I presume. They will have their cake and eat it too, while I scoop my last bite of coffee crème with cinnamon homemade whipped cream. I didn’t need to eat it all, but I wanted to. I don’t need that Birkin bag either, but I want it.
I wish I had someone to talk to, and lady bartender is nowhere in sight. She is now on her break, so male bartender takes her place. He refuses to look me in the eyes as he asks me what I want next. Look at me, and I’ll tell you my heart’s desire. His eyes continue to wander and his intimacy issues cause me to disengage. I’ll take whatever.
I watch him conjure up some story of bourbon, liquor, something and something.
“What’s this?” I take a sip.
“A Divorced Italian Style.”
First an “Always and Only” and now he’s divorcing me. Just like that. How quickly the tables turn.
I remember when my ex Mr. Forever held my hand, looked me smack in the eyes, asked me to move to New York and commit to him. In retrospect, I didn’t see him every day, so of course he seemed perfect. I didn’t go through the trenches with him, so of course we never got dirty. Everything always seemed exciting, ever-changing and brand new. Towards the end of our long distance affair, the tables quickly turned as he looked me smack in the eyes and broke my heart. I remember missing LA at that very moment.
I miss LA now as I sip my too strong Divorced Italian Style. But don’t get a big head, LA, okay? I’m not saying I’m fully committed to you or anyone else for that matter. I’m just saying I miss you. I don’t know much else, but I know that. For me that’s enough to come back…that is, if you’ll still have me.
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