Unfriended | outlines
I ask her about the dinner. She says she is not hungry.
She is staring at her phone now. Eyelids lightly flittering under the warm orange lamps. Dan told me it would be romantic. That the light brings out the dark of my eyes. How is she — he asks me. And I tell him that she is the most beautiful girl I have ever met. Unlike Sadie from last week? Unlike Sadie from last week — and he laughs. At my earnestness presubably. Or my panic as I sit fidgeting with my watch from across his table. But it’s true. I protest and he takes a long hard look at me. His signature, conniving stare. It’s true. He rolls his eyes.
No buttoned shirts. No bowties. None of the fedora or the bowler-hat business you see the relationship experts wear on Insta. Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes but he leans forward, and for a moment I’m afraid he genuinely thought of me as a clown. How well do you know yourself? Well I have no idea. I can’t hold his gaze and I flinch. Brilliant — goddamn brilliant. What does she like? I freeze. Travel. Books. Ginger cats. Oil pastels. Cold-drip coffee. Not so specific; Dan puts a hand over his face and I feel my heart sink. I’m not trying to interrogate you. I nod. So let’s say she asks you something, and Dan leans in.
She looks up from across the table and puts a fork to the stiff falafels on her plate. Without speaking she begins to dissect them, splicing them into small cubes and shuffling them about. I feel a haze condense around my temples. I ask her about the dinner. She says she is not hungry. I nod and smile like a buffoon. As if someone had stuffed my throat full of falafels. Oh god — Oh god. And I hear Dan in my ear — talk to her! But all night I cannot bring a word to my mouth. At first she talked about her family in La Caribe. I frantically formulate something. Anything at all. About that roadtrip from six months ago? About that time I lost my wallet in Los Angeles? About the family trip interstate when I got the solicitor job? So she asks about me and I stutter and I say. Oh nothing much, y’know.
Can I have a take-out box with that please? I tip the waitress as Monica adjusts her eyeliner in her handheld mirror. We pour out onto the south-bank and tangle in the outflow of pedestrians. We walk in relative silence. Her tan face illumined to an unnatural pallor by the screen — colours rapidly flickering. Can I hold you? She says that the ground is uneven. I do not hesitate to offer my elbow. She resumes her apathy. We pass under the bridge and I catch the glimpse of two interlaced shadows. Druggies most likely. Or teenagers. We leave the tunnel and I hear a girl laugh behind me — I turn to find them kissing in each-other’s arms.
Maybe I’ll call Dan to my place tonight. I’ll tell him beer is on me, and that I have falafels to share.
