My Dream Date

Last night I went on a date. The date was a surprise, he didn’t tell me the destination. He took me to Jones Hollywood Cafe. We sat to the right of the doorway. Red-checkered table cloth, busy staff moving so fast it appeared in slow motion. I watched a waiter pour a glass of wine from a carafe, the red flowed out in large bubbles, landed in the cup slowly filling to the brim. I lost my breath then, as though someone moved in front of me and punched me in the gut, on repeat. Two, three times. My date took my hand and sat me down.

“What is it, what’s wrong?”

I pointed my fingers. Tears started to fill my eyes. Somehow, I managed to say, that booth, the one to the left of us, that’s where we had Mandy’s birthday, and the other one, directly next to it, my friend Reba and I sat there and drank wine and ate artichokes all night. I wonder if they still serve those. I looked down, my hand gripping the plastic menu, knuckles white. Jones Dirty Martini listed as the number one Classic Cocktail.

The two booths directly across from us, he turned to look, that’s where I had my 30th birthday party. I wanted it small. I had six people on my list. All but one showed up. My sister, she wanted it big. The second booth belonged to her.

I smiled then, remembering the night. Remembering the world before. How she stood in front of me, tall confident, muscular. A woman with a brand new hair style, not wearing a bra, a woman who thought she knew about love and loss and all the weight in between. How small five and a half years seems looking back, how large it seems when staring ahead.

Then, I never thought I’d say I once lived on a tour bus with twelve other people. For months at a time. We traveled the world. Saw the Grand Canyon on the 4th of July, fireworks exploding louder than the river below. The southern most point of South Africa. Jumping out of a plane over the California-Mexico border. Riding a horse through a volcano in Iceland, yet here I sit, a party of two, crying over the memory of a birthday party of six. These tears do not taste of sadness. They taste of olives, of vodka, a little vermouth, stirred not shaken.

I wake, still crying…I know, I know, she’s crying again?! I have lost all ability to hold a memory in my hand without shedding a tear. It's the isolation.

The tears at three am under the sheets do not taste like a slightly dirty Kettle One martini, they taste like salt, relief, and hope. So much hope. Right around the corner.

Standing at the top of Table Mountain in 2018, I never thought the memories I’d cherish the most wouldn’t be that one, or the ones stuffed in between my 30th birthday and today. All of them pale in comparison to Jones Cafe.

The ambiance so dark it’s almost impossible to see, the conversations, the hand holding among friends, the tasting of each other’s drinks and the talking so loudly and smiling so wide my throat and cheeks were sore the morning after. The idea that having a sore throat didn't send the mind into a Covid spiral, oh the freedom!

Lately, I've been reminding myself that one day, this will only be a year (or two) of a memory. We will be out again, we will be together again. But will we ever be the same again? I hope so much that the answer is no. I hope I remember to stay a little softer, breathe a little deeper, work a little less and play a little more.