Saturday, February 28, 2009

Wearing my Spy Pants in Nooch

The second I saw his black and white striped wrist-warmers, I knew I would spend the entire dinner hoping he wouldn't notice me spying. He was waiting for his dinner date to come back from the men's room when our waiter, sporting a white belt and striking black dangly earrings, seated us right next to him. For a second I considered telling him his wrist-warmers looked cozy, but then I didn't because it would have blown my cover.

Apparently, he and his dinner date slash boyfriend had just moved in together. His boyfriend reminded me of Sean Penn playing Harvey Milk, although with less height and charm. They debated the bedroom furniture arrangement (desk, TV, bed, or bed, desk, TV) right before the two of them started lovingly arm wrestling. Milk won.

I considered asking him where he'd found his maroon tone-on-tone eyeglasses. I'm in the market for spectacles. The pair I got from See on Greenwich Aveneue fling themselves off my face at the slightest Looking at Something Short situation. But I kept my queries to myself because their waiter had rolled up with their check. They both studied it intently.

Milk asked him if he had a dollar, but he did not have a dollar. He had seventy five cents. Milk did not take the seventy five cents. Milk shoved two twenties in the bill tray and waited for change.

As they got up to leave, a brooch dropped out of his amber-plaid messenger-style man purse. The brooch was a black rectangle shape overlaid by a red star and accentuated by frilly gold swirls that may have been a "W." Or maybe not, it was hard to tell. I didn't notice the brooch on the banquette seat until they were gone, so I handed the brooch to a waiter. Not the one with the dangly earings.

Walking down the sidewalk on 17th staring back into the restaurant through the glass, I noticed all the heteros were segregated together on the other side of the restaurant.
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