Dinner Out #T

A Learning Experience.

Monday afternoon as I hurried across the quad, not quite late yet to my 3:10 in the Applied Physics lab, I flipped open the phone and tapped Ellie's number.  She answered.

"Del.  We still on for tomorrow evening?"
"Sure."
"What is your dining pleasure?"
"Italian tomorrow, I think."
"Great!  Pick you up at seven."
"'Bye!"

And I was on the steps of her sorority house at 6:58 Tuesday evening.  Her stylishly mangled jeans fit all too well, but I have to admit she looked really good in the outfit which was completed with an oxford-style white shirt and a red bandanna tied loosely around the neck.

It was a short ride to Matteo's where I had made reservations.  It would be a new experience for me as I am more of a Texas Roadhouse kind of guy.  Our table was ready.  The fact that the hostess used a flashlight to lead us to our table told me this would not be any experience with which I am familiar.

The waiter brought a wine list.  Imagine his disappointment when Ellie announced that she did not imbibe and "I would like water with lemon, please." 

"I would like the same," I averred.  He left the menus and went to fetch our drinks.  I found that there was a little twenty-five watt light beside the candle on the table and by switching it on there was just enough light to make out the offerings.

Elspeth ordered the linguine frutti di mare and a side dish of sauteed portobellos.  My internal calculator rang up "36" and I ordered the penne norcia, no side at a mere eighteen dollars.

"So, you are going to tell me how you knew my name is Elspeth."

I'm from Kalispell, and you are a Montana girl.  I attended the high school state finals in women's track last spring.  Some girl named "Ellie McCall" finished first in the 3200 meters.  What was your time?  I've sort of forgotten."

"10:23.47.  Sixteen hundredths off the state record but good enough that day."

"Yeah.   Most girls who run the 32 in under 10:50 get college scholarships. Not that I am a stalker, but I looked you up on the 'net, and lo and behold, 'Ellie' is 'Elspeth' and Bob's your uncle."  She looked a bit puzzled.  "Never mind.  When I saw you in the coffee house the other day I recognized you at once."  You are from-- Bozeman? is it?"

"No, I'm from Billings."

"That's a fur piece from Kalispell, as we say up north.  So what is it with Ellie and Vanderbilt?"

"So as I think you might have guessed, I am on a scholarship.  I'll be on team this spring.  I'm working every day and plan to focus on the 5000.  I'll still run 3200 when it's on, but I'll drop the 1600."  Then she launched into her eleven-day training cycle, aerobic sessions, anaerobic. . .

And her mill did not stop for the next ninety minutes.  Not one question about me. She managed to eat the full order and still regale me with her exploits on the track.  I finished about half my dish; it was delicious, but I'm not into food on that scale.

Ellie noticed that my fork was inverted on the plate, asked, "Aren't you going to eat that?  Do you mind; I need to keep carbed up.  Running takes lots of fuel!"

I shoved the plate across the table. 

"I'm on the track six out of every eleven days."

"Really?"  Bobby seemed to be under the impression that you go home every weekend."

"Silly Robert!  I couldn't possibly go to Montana every weekend.  And he talks nonstop, never listens."

How often we fail to see the log in our own eye, I thought, somewhat unkindly, I'm afraid.  But to my credit I didn't say it.

I told her goodnight on the steps of her house.  Passed Robert on the quad Wednesday morning.  "Oh, hey," he said.  "How was your date?"

"Fine," I replied. "The field is clear, Robert.  Go for it."

I kinda think they are made for each other.  Whether or not they discover that remains to be seen.

 

Campus Romance #T

Campus Coffee Club, corner table just to the left of the fireplace.  Three occupants, Ginger Girl, Black Haired Beauty, and a big guy with a man bun and a varsity letter jacket.  I approach.  She's sipping a chai latte, Ginger is saying her goodbyes, "Gotta run!"

Manbun is holding forth, "Yadda, yadda, yadda, blah, blah!"  and so on.  She continues to sip her concoction.

I'm in love.

Of course, I knew who she was, but I had never seen her before in person.  It's not just that her eyes are as black as her hair and her complexion, to use a cliche, is peaches-and-cream.  It's, it's an indescribable thing.  Good thing, too, because I lack both the vocabulary and the language facility.  I'm at the end of the table now, set the laptop down.  "Hi!  Mind if I have a seat?"  Her only response is a smile cast in my direction.  Bunny says, "Actually, we do mind.  This corner is occupied, and we are busy here."

I moved across the room, sat at an unoccupied table.  I opened the computer, but I kept an eye on the happy couple at the corner table.  "Happy" seems to be a bit of a stretch.  His mouth continues to move, more or less nonstop.  She glances across at me.  And again.  The third time she looks my way Bunny stops talking, looks at me, looks at her.  I couldn't hear what he said next, but clearly, he was not making her happy.  She said something to him, took a sip from her mug.  The guy stood, all six foot eight of him, swaggered over to me.   Towering over me, "Hey.  I see you eyeing my girl.  Let it go, Mac, if you get my drift."

"I have nothing against you, Robbie-- may I call you Robbie?"  Everyone knows this BMOC, name Robert Garrison.  "Do I fancy the lady? That is my concern, and hers if I make it so.  Tell you what.  Let's go over to the barrista, get ourselves a fresh coffee and go talk it over with the girl."

Well, Rob was quite taken aback-- to such a degree that he agreed with my suggestion, and we went for the drinks.  He settled back in his seat next to the girl, I remained standing.  "Del," I introduced myself as I extended my hand toward her.  She took my hand in hers, shook, and smiled.  "Everyone calls me Ellie," she said.

"Ellie.  Elspeth, right?"

"How did you know?  Most people think it is Eleanor."

"Perhaps we could go into all that over dinner, say Tuesday evening, seven o'clock?"

She nodded.  "What's your number?" I had the flip phone from my pocket.  She told me; I entered it, hit "Send."  Her phone rang, I flipped my device shut.  "That's just me.  Call you Tuesday!  Bye, now."  I leaned in close, whispered, "What color are Rob's eyes?"  She looked perplexed, said nothing; she started to turn toward the giant.  "Never mind.  A word: don't be too intimate with anyone whose eye color you don't know."  She was looking squarely and deeply into my eyes. "Gotta go," I explained, "Big test in the morning, Lobachevskian geometry.  Midnight oil, I'm afraid."

I turned and walked away.  Rob caught up with me as I reached the door.  "Nervy.  Why didn't you ask her out Friday night?"

"Why?  I thought you might have things set up for Friday, or hoped to, so I left that open for you."

"Yeah; I wish.  She always goes home for the weekend."

"Oh, my."  I couldn't help myself.  "She doesn't see your performance on the gridiron?  See you around, Robbie."

Kate and Tommy Reprise

In Springtime, they wander through the flowers, walk in meadows, long, happy hours.  “A year this June,” Tommy said, “in yon church we will be wed.  You’ll meet me at the garden gate.  My carriage comes.  Don’t be late!”

Summer’s languid afternoon found Kate and Tommy on the ground, the picnic blanket spread, their hungry bodies to be fed.  “Not yet,” said Kate, “Mama counseled me to wait.  The pleasures of wedded life to be shared by man and wife.”  “I’ll wait 'til then, don’t be late.  Meet me at the garden gate.”

That Fall needles on the ground from dark green pine trees all around.  “Here, Love, lie with me on the duff.”  “Oh, Dear One,” said Kate, “That’s not enough.  I’ll hold and keep you evermore after we exit the church house door. I’ll meet you at the garden gate.  And, oh, Tommy, don’t be late!”

Winter's winds now harshly blow as Kate walks alone through the snow.  Her heart, though is far away for on this cold December day Tommy’s ship is hast'ning home and nevermore shall Tommy roam.  His last words to her had been, “Don’t be late; I’ll meet you at the garden gate."

And at June’s first full moon breezes aloft softly croon.  Kate in gown of white shimmering in evening’s light was waiting at half ‘til eight at end of lane, at the garden gate.

The moon is high, no longer evening; bright, starry sky.  Tommy’s horse and shay have not appeared this summer day.  Mama comes to hold Kate’s hand.  The girl sobs, “I don’t understand.  He said he’d meet me at garden’s gate; promised he would not be late.”

“Kate,” Mother said, her voice severe, “Each mid-June you have stood here.  Tommy’s ship went down, you know.  It’s time for you to let him go.  It’s now been eight long years.  Get up, sing again, and dry your tears.  Tommy cannot meet you at the gate; life marches on, and you’ll be late.

©2015 David W. Lacy

Kate and Tommy #T

In Springtime, they wander through the flowers, walk in meadows, long, happy hours.  “A year this June,” Tommy said, “in yon church we will be wed.  You’ll meet me at the garden gate.  My carriage comes.  Don’t be late!”

Summer’s languid afternoon found Kate and Tommy on the ground, the picnic blanket spread, their hungry bodies to be fed.  “Not yet,” said Kate, “Mama counseled me to wait.  The pleasures of wedded life to be shared by man and wife.”  “I’ll wait 'til then, don’t be late.  Meet me at the garden gate.”

That Fall needles on the ground from dark green pine trees all around.  “Here, Love, lie with me on the duff.”  “Oh, Dear One,” said Kate, “That’s not enough.  I’ll hold and keep you evermore after we exit the church house door. I’ll meet you at the garden gate.  And, oh, Tommy, don’t be late!”

Winter's winds now harshly blow as Kate walks alone through the snow.  Her heart, though is far away for on this cold December day Tommy’s ship is hast'ning home and nevermore shall Tommy roam.  His last words to her had been, “Don’t be late; I’ll meet you at the garden gate."

And at June’s first full moon breezes aloft softly croon.  Kate in gown of white shimmering in evening’s light was waiting at half ‘til eight at end of lane, at the garden gate.

The moon is high, no longer evening; bright, starry sky.  Tommy’s horse and shay have not appeared this summer day.  Mama comes to hold Kate’s hand.  The girl sobs, “I don’t understand.  He said he’d meet me at garden’s gate; promised he would not be late.”

“Kate,” Mother said, her voice severe, “Each mid-June you have stood here.  Tommy’s ship went down, you know.  It’s time for you to let him go.  It’s now been eight long years.  Get up, sing again, and dry your tears.  Tommy cannot meet you at the gate; life marches on, and you’ll be late.

©2015 David W. Lacy