Two tables for one
After a night apart (self-imposed exile, really) Saturday had arrived, and with it, the conversation. The one I’d rehearsed in my head for weeks.
He’d been permanently stressed, chronically unavailable, and somehow convinced that being overwhelmed excused everything from forgetting plans to forgetting how to be present. I wasn’t asking for the moon. Just for him to show up. Ideally on time and emotionally conscious.
I woke up and, as I made my way to the shower, I began drafting conversation openers in my head. I wanted to be direct, but not aggressive. Honest, but not theatrical. Though what came out was: “I think we’ve been avoiding things that actually matter.” Or, “Do you even like me, or is this just your longest coping mechanism?”.
Too heavy, too exposed, too performative. I shut the nonsense down, this kind of overthinking rarely gets me far.
I stepped out of the shower, towel-twisted my hair up in a turban, only to find a message waiting on my phone:
To be honest, I don’t want to talk at all. I’d much rather have a happy and relaxed day. If we really must, we can meet here.
(Pin dropped. Our usual French restaurant. No further explanation.)
Ah, yes. Nothing like scheduling emotional labor around a good mood.
I stared at the message, blinking once. Twice. It wasn’t rude, exactly. Just efficient in the way only people with zero emotional bandwidth can be. He was in survival mode himself, he had no capacity to be thoughtful. We were on the same boat on that, at least — or sort of.
He offered a location, like this was a heist movie and we were exchanging goods under a bridge. Except the only thing getting handed over was my last ounce of patience. I inhale deeply, caught between slight disappointment and growing relief. It takes off the pressure but it also seems as if we are simply postponing a very much needed tête-à-tête.
I read the text message again and focus on “I’d much rather have a happy and relaxed day” to which I reply: “That’s alright, we don’t have to go into it today. If you’d like me to come to the restaurant, just tell me and I’ll be there.”
Jean is French, 30, tall, dark hair. Elegant and masculine, the sexiest of all to me. We’ve been together for three years, two strong wills navigating the space between us. It hasn’t always been easy, but with patience and understanding, we’ve built something real. There is still growth ahead but we have come a long way.
He changed jobs recently and even the cat started acting out with me, refusing to settle unless he was home. Suddenly, the apartment didn’t feel like mine anymore. He felt responsible; I felt misunderstood. I was unraveling in small ways, patching what I could, trying to hold the pieces together. He, with his usual precision, noticed every time I didn’t. The lack of routine, of control, of a place to retreat; it all made me short-tempered and brittle. And Jean hadn’t been himself for a while.
My phone buzzes. “I don’t mind being alone, it makes me look mysterious. But you can join me for dessert, that would be nice.” A classic Jean message: part charm, part challenge, wrapped in that disarming honesty that always feels like a dare.
On the U-Bahn, I’m wedged between bodies draped in flags and glitter, the Pride parade spilling into every corner. I smile and give myself a pleased nod of approval for my choice to wear heels. The unmistakeable confidence they provide settles into posture and presence, reshaping the way I move through space. As I step onto the street, my boots hit the pavement with a rhythmic knock, steady beneath the music. A beat of their own. A reminder: I’m here.
”A table for one, please,” I say to the waiter. He gestures vaguely toward a few open spots, but I move past them, knowing my way towards our usual spot and seat myself at a single table beside the mysterious man who whispers “Hi, baby,” turning his head only slightly.
I send a smile his way but word nothing back.
I order swiftly, Loup de Mer, no hesitation and pass the menu back without ceremony. When the waiter asks about wine, I barely glance at Jean’s table before saying, “I’ll have whatever he’s drinking.” The waiter freezes for a moment, caught mid-shift between routine and intrigue. His eyes dart to Jean, asking for permission or perhaps confirmation that this isn’t some kind of setup. Jean meets his gaze with that quiet, composed confidence of his, the kind that makes people second-guess their own authority. He smiles, gently closes his eyes and nods to the weiter. The waiter understands. A quiet ritual unfolds. A glass is set before me and, without another word, the waiter pours me a glass from Jean’s bottle.
It doesn’t take long. Glances flicker, whispers follow. I hear a mumbling “..role play?”. We’ve disrupted the trusted pattern and we’ve become the most interesting tables of the day. Jean and I eat in sync, sharing the bottle of wine, passing it over from one table to the other. To us, it’s seamless. To others, slightly disorienting.
We erupt into laughter as the main course winds down, losing composure as the wine softens our edges and tips us into carefree moments. We have not laughed like this in days. I order a crème brûlée and he goes for a double calvados, our usuals. Our eyes meet and we smile, both aware that the only table that truly matters is the one we keep choosing to share.
