(Love) Story No. 1

Years ago, I worked as a waitress at a small restaurant in the East Village.  One out of three part-time restaurant jobs I had at the time—New York City wasn’t cheap then either.  

And at this place I had a co-worker named Rose*  *not her real name

She was a waitress—a gossip, but still … lovely. 

Rose was 15 years older than me.  I was in my early 20s and she was in her late 30s.  She had short, very dark brown hair, almost black.  She had an amazingly symmetrical face and good skin.  This was before smartphones—I think if I had had one at the time I probably would’ve taken a photo (or two) of her face—asking her nicely, of course.  And that was really the depth of my thoughts about Rose—she was beautiful, and I liked being around her. 

For her “real work” as she would call it--outside of the restaurant--she worked as a freelance writer.  In the past she had had different waitressing jobs on the side, but she liked this particular restaurant because the owner was never around, and it felt like she could “… actually work and not worry about being watched.”

**

When it was busy and we ran out of tables at the restaurant we’d have customers sit at the bar.  It was a tiny space—14 tables, so you can imagine maneuvering around such a place on a Saturday night in Manhattan—pure, (fun) madness. 

One of the customers at the bar, (most likely fresh off a break-up) not deterred by my haircut—a somewhat feminine, grown-out version of a crew cut, waved over at me. 

Guy: Hey. 

Me: Hey.

Guy: I gotta ask you.  (Staring in blue eyes) Can I buy you a drink?

Me: (Uncomfortable laugh) Thanks … but I can’t.  Not when I’m working.  (Uncomfortable smile)

Guy: (Smiles) Ok.  I got it … not now.  I want to buy you a drink. If I can’t here … then somewhere else!

Me: (Smiling, feeling hot in the face)

I look up towards the clock on the wall to check the time and I see Rose.  She glances at me, glances at the guy.  Within that nanosecond I see something flash across her face—she looks annoyed.

And I think to myself:

Is my blue-eyed friend more drunk than I think? 

Is Rose picking up on something that I’m not?

Has he been in here before and been an asshole to her?--or to one of the other waitresses?

Is Rose upset with me? But why?

The night carries on … and my blue-eyed friend even after eating is slurring his speech by the time he leaves.  Poor guy. 

**

Two months later in December, Rose and I are at a karaoke bar in Chinatown. 

She’s cut her hair so she has bangs.  They’re bluntly cut across her forehead, so she looks even more (hauntingly) lovely than she did before.  The perfume she’s wearing—it’s a bit more aggressive and pronounced than how she normally smells; it’s part baby powder, part lavender, a little bit of tide detergent thrown in ... 

I’m on my fourth gin and tonic.  She’s on her second black label with ice. Framing her silhouette is the burgundy-colored wall of the bar.

Rose was telling me that she saw me one time--during the day.  She was in a cab and I was walking north on First Avenue.  She said she had thought about opening the window and saying ‘hi’ but figured that was dumb because I probably wouldn’t have heard her and she’d be seeing me in a couple hours anyway. 

I asked why she hadn’t mentioned it before. 

Rose: I don’t know (shrugs, takes a sip of her drink) I was surprised for some reason to see you.

Me: (Pause) If you don’t like me and didn’t feel like it--that’s okay too (smiling).

Rose is laughing: It’s kind of the opposite.

Me: Good.  I’m glad!

Rose is looking directly at me now.  She slides her small, thin fingers in her hair and tucks it behind her ear.  It’s her left ear (my right); she’s left-handed.  I imagine her fingers are cold from her drink. 

Rose: You know--every time I see your face (pause) I begin to hear my favorite song … playing in my head. 

Rose, a little drunk, starts humming ‘I’ll be your Mirror’

Me: Really?

Rose: Yes, really (laughing)

And I begin to think that Rose is very romantic and thinks of me more than I think of her. 

She leans in to kiss me on the mouth, I lean back, and it becomes … magically … a polite peck.

**

I’m sitting at the bar, staring at the white subway-tile backsplash.  The michelada I ordered looks as if it’s bleeding—I’m a fan.

To my left a 20-something brunette sits down, but before hooking her purse to the wall she asks if anyone’s sitting next to me.

Me: No, go ahead.

She smiles. She pulls the laminated QR code laying on the bar and hovers her phone above it.

She puts her phone down then looks over at me wanting to say something.  I oblige.

She: What are you drinking?

Me: A michelada. 

She: (Leans in to get a better look) What’s in it?

Me: Just imagine a Bloody Mary made with beer.  This one’s extra spicy. 

She: Oh.  That sounds good, actually.

Me: It is.  You should try it.

She: (Smiling) Maybe. It’s still early … are you having another one after this…?

Me: Yes.

She gets the bartender’s attention and he walks over.

She: Black label.  With ice please.

**