I dealt with the interview as politely as I could muster. The director’s IQ was dusted much too lightly for him to detect any of the slights I had laced through my responses. But then, my ambiguous words and actions are only to amuse my own self in a world full of the maddeningly mundane. He was both of those things.
The building that I was filmed in is across the street from the restaurant. The set that I was in was, what I can only presume, their idea of a romantic setting; a red backdrop with the shape of a heart centered on it and vases overfilled with red roses. There is no depth of thought evident, but then what did I expect? This is a show for the general population; they enjoy the easy and the obvious.
I make my way across the cobbled street and towards the clear glass door of the restaurant because this is what I have been instructed to do. I am nothing if I am not courteous. That is what I want them to see so naturally they will.
My date waits within, and I start to wonder whether this person will have anything of interest about themselves. Most people do not. They display the same behaviors I can analyse with no difficulty; I can predict their next move or what their next choice of subject will be and usually with a high level of accuracy.
There is a silver lining in every conundrum, however, and in this—whatever this being presents—I could choose to have this individual over for dinner at mine after tonight. I can feel myself smiling at my own pun—that's a bad habit, I’m aware; it is not generally accepted to laugh at one's own jokes. But when there is no one else to share your cannibalistic tendencies, there’s no harm in appreciating your own wit.
The surface of the door is cold against my palm as I push into the restaurant and the host greets me with a very wide, white, smile that is meant to be as warm as the air that hits me. He is bald and bearded and I suppose he imagines he is currently in trend. I smirk as I consider how he undoubtedly perceives himself as exceedingly edgy. I imagine he received a beard home-care kit for Christmas from an overbearing mother or girlfriend—both serving the same purpose in this scenario, and probably many others—and decided to make it his hobby. My expression is considered positive, it would seems, as the man ducks his head in welcome.
“Good Evening, Doctor Lecter.”
No, I decide that this one I like. He at least has the decency to get my title correct, unlike the director. Reminding myself of that small, oily man almost returns me to the recipe I was considering might accompany part of his anatomy on a latter date. Instead, I put that particular thought on hold and extend my hand out to the man I have decided won’t go on my naughty list.
“Good Evening,” I announce.
Interestingly, my eyes seem to be tracing the silhouettes of diners, trying to discern which one I will be paired with. Noticing their peculiar and spontaneous activity, I train them on the hosts jovial features. “Unfortunately I do not yet know your name.” His grip in mine is relaxed, but not like a dead fish. There really is nothing worse than a weak handshake.
“Oh, I'm not your date,” I resist the urge to narrow my eyes. Of course I don't think he is my date. Absurd notion when he is clearly standing behind the host stand, menus displayed before him. Does he believe I gave myself the title of Doctor?
He is quickly slipping out of my favor but I don’t correct him on his misstep; my person suit is firmly secured. I raise my eyebrows and cock my head, patiently waiting for him to elaborate. He looks flustered now, an awkward half smile on his face. “He's at the bar.”
The smile I return is thin but easily bought; easy and obvious. “Many thanks, Monsieur Anonymous.”
The smells of the restaurant surround me; it is neither outstanding nor offensive. The bar area is particularly strong in scent—to me at least—of the various alcoholic cocktails that have been spilled over the years. I can smell him before I really see him: woodsy, unique and completely out of place. There is most definitely a hint of dog. Despite the latter, I smile. He may be the only thing I have found interesting during this whole experience so far.
As I draw near to the form that is quite literally propping up the bar, I pause to admire his backside. It would be delightful in a manner of circumstances, and not simply for carving. But I frown as I absorb his dress sense, although it completely corroborates with his out of place scent. His shirt is plaid, rolled to his sleeves and wrinkled from slouching at some point in a chair. He is nervous and warm, I can see it from the way his finger is dragging around his collar, loosening it from around his neck, and the ruddy color of the skin at his nape. His trousers are olive in color and, if I'm not mistaken, they are a smart variation of cargo pants— if that isn’t an oxymoron in itself. Either he has dressed like this to convey a message purposefully, or he is completely out of his depth in a whole number of categories. Overall, it's quite an endearing first impression.
A deer caught in the headlights.
“I believe that you might be waiting for me.” I have to strain against the will of my cheek muscles that desire to pull my smile wider. I am not sure of the result, although I realize he is none the wiser. My arrival made the man jump so forcefully that half of his whisky is trickling down his forearm and spattered on the bar surface. One more scent for that distressing bouquet. “I didn't mean to startle you.”
“You didn’t,” he mutters absentmindedly. I’m wholly convinced that he is unaware of the lie that just came out of his mouth.
“I'm Hannibal.” I manage to hide my mirth and decide not to hold my hand out; he is quite preoccupied with a napkin and his damp wrist. He doesn’t seem to want to release his drink anymore than he wants to meet my eyes.
“Hi,” he mumbles into his chest, “I was waiting… but that's the point—the deal.” he elaborates those last two words as though I am thanking him for waiting and he is letting me know there is no need. It is not meant rudely, he is self denigrating. “I'm Will.”
His eyes are safely secured behind lenses that look too thin to have any function. The dark frame slips down his nose due to a light sheen of perspiration on his marble-like skin. He doesn't seem to notice their descent, blue orbs frantically bouncing around the room before they settle on me for a brief moment. That's when he realizes he's looking at me over the top of his glasses and uses a finger to push them up his nose as his eyes drop to the knot in my tie. Then he mumbles an apology, his hand desperately scrambling across the bar for support. The glass is still clutched his hand. The sudden flummoxed motion all took perhaps five seconds but, for that brief electrifying moment that he allowed his pupils to meet my own, I feel a firmness; a hidden strength buried beneath isolation and frustration.
Will is altogether peculiar and I find I like him.
“There’s no need to apologize. Should we find a table? The floor might be a little firmer when seated.” I add a smile as well as a soft lilt to my voice so he knows the jest is not meaning to harm, but all he does is repeat my name as though it's a memory. I surprise myself by the small twist of something deep within me; a spark somewhere in dark depths that has never seen a visitor. There’s an echo, an answer, a hunger clawing itself through the bleakness.
I push the urge to dissect myself away because I have a strong feeling that trying to discern the sensation would be like throwing a pebble into that immeasurable cavern and holding my breath, waiting to hear the noise of its fall being broken. By water, rock, foliage, bone, soft tissue…
And for a moment I am uncharacteristically caught off balance and my forehead tightens in a frown. Two of my fingertips push against the tacky wooden bar-top; a fortitude I never need. The sound of Will clearing his throat brings me back together as he realizes I asked a question. He is too lost in his own castaway nature to consciously notice the falter in my posture for that moment. Or so I assume. Maybe he is aware of the glitch in time and space that seemed to affect the both of us in this moment of collision.
I may have to eat him yet.
“Sure… you decide.” His arm made a wide gesture to the room, that I might not know where the tables were. But I know that’s not his intentions, his movements are sprung by tightly coiled nerves. “There are some booths in the corner.” His fingers finally leave the glass and he wipes his palms down over his stomach. I wonder how much damper they have become since I introduced myself?
“Would you like to sit at a booth, Will?” He blinks at the question, trying to unravel how his gesture backfired so quickly.
“Oh, no, I didn't mean that's where I wanted to sit. I was just pointing it out; I noticed while I was waiting.” He looks around the room almost in surprise of his surroundings. As if he can’t quite figure out how he got here, or this was not what he had expected happen . Truth be told, I can relate; this was not at all what I expected to find.
“If you were going to pick where to sit, would you choose a booth?” The man fingers his jaw, tips pass over his stubble making a sound that sends static electricity skating over my skin. The collar on my own shirt seems tighter now.
“Yes.” Will makes the admission and he sounds defeated in being given what he wants. That is intriguing. I begin to ponder what other things and experiences he denies himself…
