Zara does not like beer. He would rather drink something strong or don't drink at all. But he is not sure what kind of impression that would give: A man with dull eyes sitting alone in a restaurant, with a glass of liquour in front of him. A sad impression, confident or maybe desperation? He has always found it an unsolvable problem, the question how others see him. That's why he's here now, sitting behind his second beer, hoping that the drink makes him seem a relaxed man waiting for his date to arrive.
He can see couples around him everywhere. Married couples, newly dating couples, crumbling down mid-life relationships, first dates; mixed around him, but all together. He is the only guest on his own and that realisation gives him a feeling that holds the confusing middle between pride and unease.
The fingers of his left hand involuntarily strum along with the almost inaudible music playing just loud enough to aid digestion of the guests. Rhythmic his fingertips drum on the white tablecloth. With his other hand he pushes his glass of beer back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.
He is considering taking a sip, tilts the glass, lets the beer waltz around, spills and puts the glass down again.
'Everything to your liking, sir? "
"Yes. Yes. "
"Can I bring you something small to eat already, perhaps a bowl of olives or a basket of bread?"
"No," Zara says. "I'll wait a little longer. But in the meantime i will have another beer. "
The young waiter looks at the full glass, then at him, then back at the full glass.
"Yes, sir."
Zara looks after him. Eighteen at most, he thinks. Zara has read an article a while ago about hospitality programs at the lowest level. Courses where you can be trained as a waiter or assistant cook, which make you go through endless amounts of internships, without making any money. Tipping, he thinks, don't forget to tip later.
He takes a sip of his beer. And another, and another.
Before he knows it, he has downed the whole glass in one gulp.
He feels the cold beer flow through his gullet and tumble in his stomach, like a sewer pipe that expands into a forgotten river near the sea. A drop of beer rolls along his chin. Zara takes his napkin with both hands and dabs his chin and lips dry.
There is nothing to criticize him on. Not at his appearance nor on his table manners. Maybe he sometimes drinks a little greedy.
A bitter burp comes up. Zara holds the napkin over his mouth to stifle the sound in the linen. When he burps, he feels something sour come along.
A bit of vomit, he thinks. That can happen to anyone, a little puke.
He carefully drapes the napkin over the empty glass as if it were a sleeping child that urgently needs to be tucked in. He proudly looks at it. Maybe it's art, he thinks. Conceptual art. Maybe I'm an artist, always have been, an artist in the body of a man whose appearance and table manners are flawless.
A lady at the table across from him nods over the shoulder of her husband. It's a clever woman, Zara concludes. A handsome, married woman.
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