He nodded, abruptly pulled me into a hug, and then, just as abruptly, withdrew and dashed out the door.
I watched his retreating form for a short moment and considered the fact that I was going to have to finish that bottle of wine by myself. This wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. I had Saturdays off and could afford to sleep in. I waited until Chuck disappeared around the corner at the end of the block before returning to my waiting plate of butter chicken.
On the way back, I stepped to the side to allow the last customers to exit; their departure meant I was the only paying customer left in the restaurant. As I strolled back to my table, I decided to ask Alex to pack up the chicken and cork the wine—no need to make him stay late on my account.
However, as I neared my table, I realized that it was now occupied; well, Chuck’s seat was occupied—by Alex. My seat was empty. My steps faltered as our eyes met.
He was looking at me—looking at me like I was something to be observed, studied, and his plainly untrusting gaze seemed to grow more guarded as I approached.
When I was a few steps from my abandoned chair, I stopped and just stood there, stalled, not sure what to do. It struck me as a very odd moment. I was standing at the edge of a table where Alex was sitting. In essence, we had switched places.
“Hello,” I said.
“Hello,” he said.
My attention flickered to the table. In front of him was a plate of saag goat or lamb—impossible to tell which—with a side of mango chutney, and he’d already raided the previously untouched basket of garlic naan.
Also, he’d poured himself a glass of my wine.
I met his gaze again. The circumspection in his eyes was disconcerting. He licked his lips.
“Please have a seat.” He motioned to my untouched plate of butter chicken.
I looked at him. I looked at the wine. I looked at my plate of butter chicken. I shrugged.
“Sure. Why not?”
I sat, placed the napkin on my lap, and took a generous bite of the chicken and jasmine rice. It was, as usual, a delicious replacement for physical contact, my comfort food.
I glanced at Alex again. He also was delicious—delicious and watching me as though I were not delicious. In fact, his expression made me feel rather fetid. My heart rate increased inexplicably. I felt like a skittish rabbit. This was noteworthy, as I usually felt like an optimistic octopus.
“How is your butter chicken, Sandra?”
I started, my fork suspended in the air for a beat, but I quickly recovered. “How do you know my name, Alex?”
“Your credit card, Sandra. I ring up your tab with it every Friday night.”
“Oh.” I frowned at him. Something was just off about him. He seemed to dislike me, but here he was having dinner with me, uninvited. I wasn’t used to people disliking me. Hmm…curious, that. “I’m not here every Friday night.”
“Fine then, you’re here every other Friday night.”
I ignored his last comment. “The butter chicken is quite good, thank you. How is your saag goat?”
“It’s saag lamb, and it’s delicious.”
I almost choked on my chicken when he said delicious; wondered if he could read my mind. His voice made everything sound delicious.
“That’s excellent news, Alex. So, Alex, why don’t you tell me about yourself?”
He smiled, but the smile did nothing to settle my apprehension. If anything, my heart rate increased from skittish rabbit to frightened rabbit having a minor coronary.
Curiouser and curiouser!
“What do you wish to know, Sandra?”
“First of all, stop saying my name. It’s creeping me out.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I never told you my name.”
“And?”
I ignored his question. “Secondly, why don’t we start with your parents.”
“My parents.” His tone was flat.
“Yes, tell me about your parents.”
“Certainly.” He wiped his hands on his napkin and leaned back in the booth; apparently, he was relaxed. “My parents were Romanian circus performers. I grew up in the circus as part of the act.”
I stared at him. He stared at me. I knew he was lying. The omnipresent caution in his eyes was now somehow altered by a flicker of emotion. I thought it resembled amusement, but he was difficult to read.
I shook my head once, placed my fork on the plate, and leaned back in my seat. I surveyed him. The side of his mouth hitched slightly; it did nothing to thaw his features.
“That’s not true.” I said matter-of-factly.
His smile grew, was plainly sincere, yet it lacked warmth. “You’re right. It’s not true.”
I studied him for a long moment before I asked the obvious question. “Why did you say it then?”
“Because you make men cry.”
I believe my eyes bulged. He’d surprised me. Score one point for Alex.
“Ah. That.” I nodded, reached for my glass of wine. “You found me out. I’m a man-eater.” I took a healthy gulp.
“Well, that’s good news.”
I choked, coughed, but managed by sheer luck to keep from spewing red wine all over the table. My eyes bulged further. Did Alex the waiter just turn my man-eater comment into a double entendre? Did that actually occur?
How very scandalous!
“Drink some water.” He lifted his chin and indicated my neglected water even as he poured more wine into my glass.
After two large swallows of water, I felt capable of speaking, though my voice was raspier than usual. “Alex, that was quite a naughty thing to say.”
The carefulness in his gaze wavered as a slow, decidedly salacious grin spread from his mouth to his eyes. I held my breath. When he smiled, actually smiled, he looked a bit more innocent and devious at the same time, boyish and rakish. It was devastating and made me feel like a teenager with a crush on the bad boy in high school.
I suddenly wanted to kiss him.
I reached for my wine glass instead and finished half of it while I watched him over the rim.
At last, he broke the silence and sounded truly pleased with himself. “It was naughty, wasn’t it?”
I nodded, set the glass down. “Was that your goal?”
His eyes narrowed at my question. “Why do you make men cry?”
I reached for my wine glass again, took another swallow. “Do I make men cry?”
“Yes, every other Friday night. Would you care to hear my theories?”
“You have more than one theory?”
“Do you ever respond to a question without asking another question?”
“Does it bother you?”
“No. But it does confirm my hypothesis.”
“What hypothesis?”
He let out a heavy sigh, and with it, all the residual warmth from our flirty banter evaporated. “You’re a shrink,” he said. He might as well have accused me of being a traitor or a murderer or a Kardashian.
I finished my glass of wine and he, reaching over the table, swiftly refilled it. Peripherally, I noticed that he hadn’t yet touched his wine. “Why do you think I’m a shrink?”
He frowned again, his eyes guarded. “In the beginning, I thought you must be bringing these men in here to break up with them. But then these encounters became too frequent. Naturally, I considered the possibility that these men worked for you and you brought them here to fire them. I thought that perhaps you were their boss and you’d chosen this restaurant as the place to let them go, deliver the bad news.”
“But you ruled that out.” I sipped my wine then gulped it, held the glass in both hands as though it might protect me. I didn’t know why I did this.
He nodded once. “From time to time, I overheard pieces of your conversations, and realized you didn’t know these men. I considered the possibility that you were delivering some other kind of bad news—like maybe they had cancer or had lost a loved one.”
“But you ruled that out too.” I finished another glass. He motioned for me to set it on the table; I did as he silently instructed. He refilled it, his attention fixed on the wine bottle and my glass.
“You didn’t seem to know these men, at least not very well. Then it became obvious that this was one of the first times you’d actually sat and talked with them, so I figured you were meeting new clients here. But that didn’t explain why you made them all cry.”
“Ah, yes; you have a point there.” My assenting head bob may have been more exaggerated than I would have liked. I was feeling the effects of my two rapidly drunk glasses of wine.
“Why do you do it?” His tone was sharp, as were his eyes as they moved from the bottle to me. In fact, he was so angry that he looked almost dangerous.
Sad, that. He had such a handsome face when he allowed himself to smile. But then—I tipsily admitted—dangerous, angry waiter Alex was also mighty fine.
Mighty fine, indubitably.
“I don’t do it on purpose.”
“Really?” He didn’t believe me.
“No. I don’t.” I held his granite gaze. “I don’t like it when they cry. It’s why I schedule these first dates for so late in the evening.”
His hostile façade cracked, his eyebrows tugged low over his eyes like thick, shadowy unhappiness umbrellas. “Wait, what? Dates? These are dates? Are you kidding me?”
I nodded despondently, but it felt more like an embarrassing almost-falling-asleep head bob. Copious amounts of red wine on an empty stomach will do that to a girl who hasn’t been kissed in over two years. “Yes. Dates. First dates. Did you think these men were my patients?”