EYEHEARTZOMBIES

The walk to the train station and the train ride over to Manhattan were filled with small talk. We talked about the weather and what we were going to do for Thanksgiving, which was the day after tomorrow. She said she was going back to Connecticut to her parent’s house. I didn’t have anywhere to really go, so I told her I was going to a friend’s house. No reason to make a girl feel sorry for you on the first date. She asked if I had any family to go have Thanksgiving dinner with. “No, not really,” I said. “My mom and dad both died when I was younger.” Her face dropped a bit, and I quickly added, “but that’s nothing. I get by just fine.”

The train arrived and we walked out into the late afternoon sunlight in Manhattan. She smiled at me, took in a deep breath, and wrapped her arm through mine again. I asked her what kind of food she liked best.

“Oh, it doesn’t matter to me,” she said. Are all dames like that? Can’t make up their friggin’ minds?

“Well, do you like Chinese food?” She made a funny face at that, so I decided to change my plans. We weren’t far from an Italian area, so I thought that might work well. We strolled around the town for awhile, waiting on night to fall. We walked through a couple of parks and went to browse at the Tiffany’s windows.

When the streetlights winked on, I turned to her asked her if she’d like to get a bite to eat now. She smiled and nodded, so I hailed a taxi and told him to take us to Little Italy. He sped off through the streets, finally depositing us in front of a little cafe with red checkered awnings and a smoked glass front door. I paid him and we climbed out of the hack.

“This place looks nice,” Cindy said. I nodded at her and held the door open for her to go in.

Inside, the restaurant seemed to be filled with a soft, golden glow. The hardwood floors were polished to a high shine and reflected the lamps over each table. The tables were the classic round tables with checkered tablecloths. A candle and a bottle of olive oil sat on each one. There were booths around the sides of the restaurant and not a soul in any of the seats. I led Cindy by the arm to booth near the kitchen and we sat down just as a waiter came over to us.

He spoke something to us in Italian, but when we didn’t answer, and obviously didn’t understand, he tried again in English. “Welcome, you two, to our restaurant. Would you like some wine this evening?” I felt like splurging, so I said yes. He nodded once and went to get us a bottle.

“This place looks nice,” Cindy said again, apparently at a loss for conversation. I nodded again and picked up the menu that was sitting on the table. It was filled with the usual Italian staples so picking something wasn’t hard. I handed the menu to Cindy and she looked at it for quite awhile.

The waiter returned with our wine, poured me a taste and when I approved it, filled both of our glasses and left the bottle on the table with the cork jutting out of the top. I didn’t, and still don’t, know anything about wine, but it wasn’t bitter or vinegary, so it was good enough for me. The waiter stood at the corner of the booth, obviously waiting on us to order. He “ahem”ed once.

“I’d like the lasagna,” I said. He nodded, noting that I had chosen a very fine dish this evening, then turned to Cindy. She looked at him, smiled, a bit embarrassed and went back to reading the menu. Finally she looked up and ordered the chicken Parmesan. He nodded and again said it was a fine choice. He took the menu and retreated to the kitchen.

We sat there, quietly looking around and occasionally passing the time with some mild chatter, waiting for the food to come. We went over the weather again, and sports, and world news. Germany was a concern, but not much of one, since it didn’t really affect us. We talked about problems in the City; potholes and smog and crime. She mentioned hearing about some guys in one of the warehouse districts getting killed a couple of days ago. I feigned interest, but hoped she’d drop that line of talk quick. After seeming hours of polite conversation, the food came and we gladly avoided the silence by filling our mouths. The food was great; I’ve returned to that little restaurant, Paulie’s, many times since.

After dinner, we split a piece of tiramisu and had some coffee. I could tell that Cindy felt comfortable again, and things seemed to be on the upward path. I wasn’t sure what had happened to her. Between meeting at the diner at three and finishing the meal, she had seemed very uptight and a bit upset. Maybe it was the peeping, as unintentional as it had been. Maybe I had missed something else. I was just glad to see her back to normal.

I paid the check and we left the restaurant. We walked around Little Italy for awhile, now holding hands. I bought her a rose from a flower stand that was getting ready to close. She ooh’d over it and gave me a peck on the cheek. True dark fell and the streets began to deserted, so I hailed a cab to take us back to Grand Central.

The train ride back was much like the train ride over. Uncomfortable silences and strained conversation. Maybe it’s trains, I thought. Whatever it was, she was almost back to her happy self when we reached the door of her apartment building. I told her I’d see her sometime, to have a nice Thanksgiving, and she told me the same. Another kiss on the cheek and she was inside, walking up the stairs to her place.

I turned and walked home, full of strange thoughts about her. I wasn’t sure I liked her anymore, but I wasn’t sure I didn’t, either.

Cindy and I never had a second date. I never saw her again at the diner and the one time I went to her apartment, the landlady was there and wouldn’t let me talk to her. She refused to take a message to her and said that Cindy wasn’t in; that she had moved somewhere else.

I really don’t even know why I’m writing about this part of my life. The one evening I spent with Cindy wasn’t important. I would spend hundreds of other evenings and nights with other women. I guess a recap of one’s life just isn’t complete without at least one strange love.

Well, there’s mine.