The first time I meet Jeff, I am sitting on the back patio of my favorite restaurant having brunch with a friend and he is bringing us our eggs benedict and mimosas. He’s tall with dark hair and a makes-you-melt smile, slightly “alternative” – which, in all reality, just means he is wearing a leather cuff around his wrist – and completely charming. It’s likely I am seeing someone, but that doesn’t keep me from putting on a circus act of over-the-top flirting, a standard I set that day and maintain enthusiastically for the next three years.
Jeff is one of those San Francisco waiters who is good at what he does. Whether or not he is actually happy to see me every time I walk into the restaurant, usually without a reservation, but always with an inappropriate comment about how we should go make out in the bathroom (clearly a joke as the bathroom at that restaurant is barely big enough to fit one person, let alone one person standing up with another on her knees - kidding!), he makes me feel as though I am a guest of honor. Of course, I choose to believe that he is actually elated every time I dine there because I have what some people like to call an inflated ego. I just call it drunken confidence. Also: I like to think I tip well.
I never see Jeff outside of the restaurant, though I did flirt with the idea of going to see his band play one time and throwing my panties on stage; sadly, I am too stingy to part with my $18 lace thongs… Rather, our relationship exists completely within the four walls (and patio) of my favorite restaurant in the city. There’s not a whole lot of talking that can be done when one of the parties involved is working, but every time I go there, I learn something new… where he’s from, that he quit the band, wants to start doing voice over work, looks better clean shaven… has a girlfriend.
Last night, I walk into the restaurant and he comes over to say hello. I (jokingly?) tell him I’m losing interest in him based on the fact that his relationship with his girlfriend is so serious.
“Actually,” he says, “she’s not my girlfriend anymore.”
This should make my heart flutter, but he’s smiling when he says it in a way that only someone who is completely in love can smile, and instead of fluttering, my heart sinks.
“…She’s my fiancée.”
My dining companions start gushing, but no one can hear what they’re saying over my dramatic howl of “Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!” that echoes off the restaurant walls and is accompanied by a swift punch to Jeff’s arm. (I wish I could blame the fact that I still hit when I’m upset on growing up with brothers, but I have to say I think it’s just that I’m kind of a brat.)
Jeff proceeds to tell a story that involves a hot air balloon ride and a bungalow and a diamond ring and something about his fiancée is the type of girl who jumps up and down when she’s excited and I pour a third of the wine bottle into my glass and start chugging.
When he leaves, my girlfriends also fill up their wine glasses and someone tries to cheers to our girls' dinner. I interject with a toast of my own. “To divorce.” Three dirty looks later, I amend the toast, “Fine. To affairs.”
But then it hits me. The answer to my problem is not divorce or affairs…
Jeff returns to the table shortly, rubbing his bicep with a wounded look on his face and that’s when I say:
“So. Jeff. Congratulations. I mean it. Seriously. Also, just of curiosity… how does your fiancée feel about threesomes?”
He’s going to check with her and get back to me. Let's just hope he tells her what a good tipper I am...
Jeff is one of those San Francisco waiters who is good at what he does. Whether or not he is actually happy to see me every time I walk into the restaurant, usually without a reservation, but always with an inappropriate comment about how we should go make out in the bathroom (clearly a joke as the bathroom at that restaurant is barely big enough to fit one person, let alone one person standing up with another on her knees - kidding!), he makes me feel as though I am a guest of honor. Of course, I choose to believe that he is actually elated every time I dine there because I have what some people like to call an inflated ego. I just call it drunken confidence. Also: I like to think I tip well.
I never see Jeff outside of the restaurant, though I did flirt with the idea of going to see his band play one time and throwing my panties on stage; sadly, I am too stingy to part with my $18 lace thongs… Rather, our relationship exists completely within the four walls (and patio) of my favorite restaurant in the city. There’s not a whole lot of talking that can be done when one of the parties involved is working, but every time I go there, I learn something new… where he’s from, that he quit the band, wants to start doing voice over work, looks better clean shaven… has a girlfriend.
Last night, I walk into the restaurant and he comes over to say hello. I (jokingly?) tell him I’m losing interest in him based on the fact that his relationship with his girlfriend is so serious.
“Actually,” he says, “she’s not my girlfriend anymore.”
This should make my heart flutter, but he’s smiling when he says it in a way that only someone who is completely in love can smile, and instead of fluttering, my heart sinks.
“…She’s my fiancée.”
My dining companions start gushing, but no one can hear what they’re saying over my dramatic howl of “Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!” that echoes off the restaurant walls and is accompanied by a swift punch to Jeff’s arm. (I wish I could blame the fact that I still hit when I’m upset on growing up with brothers, but I have to say I think it’s just that I’m kind of a brat.)
Jeff proceeds to tell a story that involves a hot air balloon ride and a bungalow and a diamond ring and something about his fiancée is the type of girl who jumps up and down when she’s excited and I pour a third of the wine bottle into my glass and start chugging.
When he leaves, my girlfriends also fill up their wine glasses and someone tries to cheers to our girls' dinner. I interject with a toast of my own. “To divorce.” Three dirty looks later, I amend the toast, “Fine. To affairs.”
But then it hits me. The answer to my problem is not divorce or affairs…
Jeff returns to the table shortly, rubbing his bicep with a wounded look on his face and that’s when I say:
“So. Jeff. Congratulations. I mean it. Seriously. Also, just of curiosity… how does your fiancée feel about threesomes?”
He’s going to check with her and get back to me. Let's just hope he tells her what a good tipper I am...
