“Take a seat. Was just watching the storm roll in.” And, true to her words, sky-filling gray-to-black clouds approach from the north. It is the type of brewing storm that robs the place of its ambiance. “Will lengthen the lunch.”
Doug sees her guitar while taking a seat. “You know, I was in a band once.”
“For real?”
“Well, marching band. I was on triangles.”
Spin briefly bites into her lower lip to check herself. “Tell me about it.”
“Oh, it was the worst, being on mano-percussion. It’s the one instrument you can’t hide a flub from. Come in too early; everyone knows it. Come in too late; you get nasty stares from all directions. Had to quit as the pressure was affecting my studies.”
She wants to laugh for two reasons. For one, he compared playing triangles to playing guitar. For two, how his voice deepened at the end of that last sentence, having all the energy of him spilling a bottle of testosterone onto the table. Of course, he kept going with other useless truths, taking this proverbial dirty rag of ‘ick’ and wiping bigger and bigger circles, forcing her defenses up. She knows better than to take him on before she eats something.
Doug, by comparison, sits rather chipper. He’s s onto remembering his other two dinner dates. Well, his attempted dinner dates. Both were planned meetups at his hometown diner. Both girls literally ran away when they saw him in the parking lot. He always felt it was that Michael-Jackson-Billie-Jean tux his mother, Delores, strongly suggested he wear. The one with the pink shirt and red bow tie. Gifted on his eighth birthday. The good woman had patched and re-patched it over the years against his growth and pudge.
Spin is still there when the food arrives. It has to be that bad-luck tux. So, he asks confidently before stuffing a fully loaded hot dog into his mouth, “Do you come here often?”
“Hope not. It’s my break-up place.”
Doug coughs out in shock. Most of his chew smashed into his plate like an unexploded mortar shell, sending a few French fries to the floor.
None of his dramatics stop Spin. She continues to fork through her Santa Fe Salad, saying near the end of his fits, “Maybe don’t take such a big bite next time.”
Tests of lightning dance outside the restaurant. Outdoor patrons rush in on the first drops of rain, holding onto whatever drinks they had, grumbling fresh complaints to whoever would listen. Customers and wait staff close windows in a tizzy. Yes, the weather change has become a great unifier of people! Somehow, a mom and her boy make it through the storm survival din, finding a free table behind Doug. As they sit down, the boy watches Spin lean over her gear to close the last window. The sight of her sheathed guitar mesmerizes the boy.
Thinking no one is watching, Doug pokes at the mess on his plate. Spin saves him with, “I wouldn’t. That would be downright disgusting.”
