Fresh fruit in November, Zara thinks.
She suggested this restaurant. He just wanted to have a drink, she immediately wanted to dine. When she wrote that, he also wanted to dine.
He had thought of something simple, a diner with burgers and fries, near a train station. Not the most obvious place for a man of his age. The diner is always full of students, who can eat the meal of the day for half its price. But Zara feels comfortable amongst the crowd and loud music. Many young people nod at him there, perhaps because it reminds them of their parents, perhaps because he is always there.
When he comes home from the diner, his jacket smells of cooking oil.
Once he brought a girl back home, a girl that came to sit at his table with a nasty looking plate of lasagna. The girl had a nose piercing and the palest skin he had ever seen. Her date had not shown up, she said.
They talked all night about everything. Zara had a good time, though the girl also had something strange about her. The girl also thought it was nice, she was just cold the whole time. Therefore he had wrapped his jacket around her like a blanket when they went outside.
At night they had sex at his home, with the heater on. His jacket smelled like deep fryer and young girl the next day.
When Zara had told this story, his match said she did not like fries and that piercings were unsanitary. A day later she emailed him again.
It was an forwarding-mail. A forwarding for a reservation for this restaurant. For two, at 7:30 pm.
He plays with his phone and drinks his beer. She didn't give a shy impression in her e-mails, he thinks. Not like someone who is too afraid to call.
Appearances, he thinks, pretension. Women. He had learned a lot about women.
When he beckons to have the wine uncorked, a different waiter than before comes towards him. This guy is older, grayer, he smells like the fabric seat covers in some cars.
"Where is that boy from earlier?" Zara asks.
"Gone."
"Gone?"
"Gone."
"Is he coming back?"
"Back?"
"Back here?"
'No.'
'Oh.'
"I am your waiter for the rest of the evening, sir."
"Not the boy?"
"Not the boy. Shall I already bring you a basket of bread, sir? "
"No," Zara replies, "thank you. I will wait a little longer. I'm waiting for someone. "
"The boy is not coming back, Mister. He is gone.'
"I'm waiting for somebody else. For a woman. "
"The woman who has booked?"
"Yes. That lady is my date. "
The waiter hesitates. "Sir, that woman will not come."
"She's a little late," Zara says loud.
"Sir, I assure you she will not come."
"You know nothing, sir. She will come. Now bring me a basket of bread anyway. And some olives. "
He takes a sip from his wine, drums his fingers on the table before staring at the entrance door.
The way he sits here right now, he is flawless.
She will come, I hope.