Desired


I've been thinking I should have said something.

You know the night I mean. We'd just met. There were a couple of after-work
drinks and weekend coffee dates that went better than I'd hoped -- better than
we had both expected, I think. (I remember the story you told, "This one time,
the person I was with, I swear, spent a full ten minutes talking about a coat
rack that happened to be standing next to our table. Making these ridiculous
statements like, 'We're looking for a coat rack just like this,' like who's 
'We' and why do I care? And I just wanted to say, 'Look, I'm not interested
in you, all right, so will you please chill out.'" And when I told you all my
coat-hanging needs were well taken care of, it made you laugh.)

It had rained, briefly, but the sun was out and I remember, as we walked, the
smell of fresh water evaporating from concrete. It was the month of May, a time
for new beginnings, for flowers pushing up through the soil, and for birds ...
but this was the city, and while seasons come and go, temperatures getting
warmer and colder, days growing longer and then shorter, still the closest I
ever got to a real May flower is the ship my ancestors came over on.

We passed several restaurants before we settled on one. You nixed the Tex-Mex
and the French bistro. You rejected one place as "too orange" and you know, I
had to agree. Then just as I was starting to worry that the evening would turn
out to be a lovely walk with nothing to eat at the end of it, we found the
Malaysian restaurant.

The food was terrific, the grammar just terrifying. The waiter had to keep
coming back to try and take our order because we were too busy dissecting the
menu's language to concentrate on its contents. He'd walk around the dining 
room and veer close to our table to find us pointing at some spot on the page,
laughing, then he'd swerve away without a word, too polite or maybe too timid
to interrupt. You found the best one: "Listen to this, listen -- 'Slow beef
cooked with onions, lemon, grass and chili, simmered in rich coconut curry and
topped with basil leaves. Something to be desired!' Two thirds of the way down
the second page. That's too perfect."

But when I suggested that you order it, you asked, "Why would I want a dish
that leaves something to be desired?" I pointed out that it wasn't what the
description said. "Well if it is to be desired, maybe I should just leave it
alone. Admire it from a distance." You held the menu out at arms' length and
eyed it like you were appraising a painting. "Because who knows, once I taste
this, will I still desire it? Here's what I think. Even if I like it, I'll be
satisfied in that moment of eating it. I won't have that desire anymore. No, I
think what this is trying to tell me is that the best course is to avoid it
altogether. But go ahead and order it if you want."

In the end neither of us ordered the beef, but the meal was delightful
nonetheless. You got shrimp, if I recall; mine was a chicken curry. We split
a bottle of Riesling, then a dish of ginger ice cream as we lingered over
coffee.

By the time we left the restaurant it had gotten dark. We walked together back
down the street to where we met up that night, for no particular reason. Just
to draw out the evening a little longer. The shop was closed, but we weren't
there to buy anything anyway, so we just stood outside, looking at each other.
Thinking the same thing, I'm certain. The city got silent; I could hear myself
breathe. One breath. Two. Two and a half, and that was when you said, "That was
a great dinner. So, I'll be seeing you around."

And of course we did. Saw a lot of each other, became fast friends. I'm living
in the suburbs now -- maybe you are, too -- but like I was saying, I've been
thinking a lot about that night. About you and me, standing in the street, half
a breath before you said that. It was on the tip of my tongue.

The thing I didn't say, years ago, in the month of possibility, of missed
beginnings, of what could have been.