Dining out

vendredi, le 18 septembre 2009

It was My Husband’s idea that we go out for dinner tonight to celebrate the end of an era and the start of my life without the shop.

My Husband is not a husband in the biblical sense. He is an incredibly good friend and has been for many years. We have a mutual friend who lives Down Under. My Husband and I once conjured up this trick to play on our mutual friend, who is not aware how close our friendship had grown, and to let her know that we have tied the knot. We even arranged a wedding ceremony at the shop. L’homme was meant to be the priest, I cannot recall who was meant to be the pageboy, but neither of them showed up. I suitably arrived half an hour late and from that day my dear, darling good friend became My Husband. If he did not bat for the other team, he would indeed have been fantastic marriage material!!

The Painter had just come back from his first international exhibition in New York, The Artist arrived with paint on her hands, frantically finishing work for a local exhibition in a few weeks’ time and The Actress was delayed by a shoot that overran.

We’re having dinner at my favourite local. The food is good, the prices reasonable. The wine is flowing. The chatter is light, amusing and entertaining. We swap travel stories and life insights.

I walk back from the bathroom and see L’homme sitting on the balcony. My heart skips a beat. One of the things that influenced my decision to sell the shop was that I no longer wanted to be on a street where L’homme was every night. I no longer wanted to face painful reminders of him every day. If he is now going to decide to move around the corner and run me out of my favourite local, I will really be furious.

I sit down at the table. A somber, black cloud hanging over my pleasant evening. I regret phoning him last night. I regret ever falling for his charm. I regret having been made a fool of for so very, very long. But more than that, I regret still missing him so very, very deeply. Again, tortures from a distance with his new found cruelty and malice.

My Husband hugs me and holds me tight. He plants a kiss on my forehead. I take a huge sip of wine. I take control. I pretend. I laugh. I talk. I arrive home in tears.

(L’homme and I never visited any for New York’s famous museums. L’homme was always in search of a bar, I was always in search of a shop. We did make it to the entrance of the Museum of Modern Art, but it was almost closing time. I did manage to buy some things at the museum shop though, of course to L’homme’s great irritation.)