The Other End of the Table

Sometimes I find myself at the other end of the table. And I think to myself, how did this happen? Who did the seating assignments, and don't they know I don't know any of the people around me?

And so I sit quietly, as the conversation around me makes it obvious that these people, they know each other. They share some stories, have a few laughs, and I smile politely and realize my gaze has settled on the other end of the table. The end where the people I knew are sitting.

Breasts get in the way as a waitress reaches between to place drinks on the table. The left one actually makes contact with my nose. She didn't mean to, it was an accident, and I glance around to see if anyone saw. She saw, and didn't care. He noticed the breasts, and assumes I liked it. The other two are heavily engaged in conversation, and the last one is trying to get the waitress to come stand by him.

Nobody saw.

Down at the other end of the table, though, someone did. In fact, is telling the others around him about it. Surely the dialogue will include how astounded I was at the appearance of breasts. Laughter ensues, but I'm not sure what was said. But my imagination knows.

The appearance of breasts at nose level also, of course, means, my drink is here. Double shot of tequila chilled and strained into a wine glass, with a wedge of lime teetering on the lip. I sip - as quality tequila is meant to be sipped. The waitress asks how it is, because of course I painstakingly ordered it and she is concerned enough to insure I am satisfied that she did listen, she did listen. I nod approvingly and the breasts withdraw.

What she doesn't know is that I said jalapeño, not lime, and that I'm not a fan of breasts.

But the tequila, oooh, it is good.

It warms me. Stuff the lime in a cocktail napkin and tuck it behind a water glass on the table and look around. It seems someone has asked me a question. Surely it was just a polite inquiry, perhaps they wonder why I like my tequila in this fashion. Perhaps their only experience with tequila is the shot-glass-lime-salt variety in which the brand is meaningless and the Brand means nothing. I mumble a response, because I didn't hear the question.

But the tequila is good.

I painstakingly ordered it.

The other end of the table is lively now, and I look to that end for rescue. It is there, in their eyes, in his eyes, but there is simply not room, down there. But the invitation is there, in his eyes. A smile pulls at the corner of his mouth, and our eyes hold for a heartbeat or two.

But I did not answer the question. Or perhaps they did not hear the answer, or perhaps the answer wasn't obvious. So I'm drawn in to a conversation, inane though it may be, about words I can barely make out, as they are drowned out by the other end of the table.

Suddenly the tequila is good. And the questions make sense. The words coalesce, and I'm engaged, talking to the one that assumes I liked the breasts touching my nose. Talk now from the two there, about things that we have in common, such things we never knew. A flash fires, and a memory is made, the arms-length memories in which only heads are seen, and yet the other end of the table is not forgotten, never forgotten..