Her name was Rebecca. Well, I assumed. She introduced herself as Becca when we typed to each other on the dating site, and again when we met at the restaurant.
“I’m Becca,” she said, sure of herself, with a boldness that brushed away any doubt.
It was awkward, you know, getting to know someone while stressing over what to order and what to say. Do I tell Becca how I like her necklace, even though I don’t? Do I tell her about how it’s cold outside, and that it seems like winter is really coming early this year?
Thankfully, I suppose, I didn’t have to worry about that; Becca’s cherry lips spewed forth rapids of speech, drowning out any worry that I might say something I would regret later on. Her scarf hung off her neck like a ribbon—like she had just won first place for ugliest scarf and she wanted the whole world to know of her victory. I sat, overdressed in a tie and black pants, wishing I was back home doing anything else.
Becca told me about her obnoxious roommate, her “fast-paced” consultant job, and her love of hiking. I told her what I was going to order, after she finally took a breath to ask.
The waitress soon returned to take down my order of the parmesan chicken and Becca’s order of some sort of salad. The brief pause to convey our orders was a welcome respite, too quickly taken away by the waitress’s absence.
Our food came soon enough, and at last I could fill my ears with the sound of silverware striking the chicken instead of Becca’s complaints. Still though, I grew exasperated.
I sighed, audibly. Becca abruptly stopped, her face quickly taking a harsh tone, condemning me for my action. For the first time, it seemed, her eyes met mine, as she set her fork down on her stack of lettuce.
“What, am I boring you?” she scowled.
“No, no, of course not. I’m just tired.“ I said, with a degree of honesty that surprised even myself.
“Oh ok, well so yeah I’ve always wanted to go to the Grand Canyon but I think it would be too hot you know? Like what do you even pack for–”
“Becca, excuse me,” I said, reflexively picking up my plate of chicken parm and heading for the exit at a deliberate pace. I gave the waitress two twenties on the way out and stepped into the cold night air.
I ventured over to the edge of the parking lot, and after finding a suitable cement parking slab, (what are those called?) took a seat.
The chicken tasted better cold, fresher certainly, and I enjoyed every bite.
“Do you do this often?” came a somewhat recognizable voice from behind me.
It was the waitress. “Believe it or not, this is the second time I’ve left a date to eat my chicken parm in the parking lot,” I admitted.
She laughed. “Well, we kind of need the plate back,” she said, motioning towards it.
“Oh, of course,” I blushed, handing it to her.
“Thanks, and if I may,” she paused and I told her to go on, “It was pretty rude of you to leave the date early. Even if you didn’t like her, you shouldn’t have left like that.”
She was right. I needed to stop leaving dates early to finish my chicken parms in parking lots.
“It tastes better in the cold night air,” I said. The words slipped out of my mouth; I knew they were ridiculous, and I instantly feared she would judge me.
“Oh, you’re definitely right,” she said, “All poultry tastes better cold.“
“Yeah I know! You ever just eat your frozen dinners…”
“…right out of the freezer?"
I nodded enthusiastically. We were made for each other. I had found the woman of my dreams.
I proposed seven months later and she said no, but when I proposed two months after that she said yes. We were so happy together. We got a dog named Skippy who was really good at catching frisbees. Like really good.
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