\nWhen Eliza returns from the bathroom, after fifteen minutes that saw me sliding from calm to fretful, she looks pale underneath the low lights produced by the restaurant\u2019s chandeliers. Moving listlessly and a little awkwardly, she drifts along until she pauses in the empty stretch of hardwood floor between the kitchen and the dense puzzle of tables. A distracted waiter nearly runs her over, apologizes, but she doesn\u2019t notice. Her eyes roam through space like she\u2019s forgotten why she\u2019s there. They glaze over me, unseeing, and I raise a self-concious hand, give it a few limp waves. Eliza misses it but starts heading my way, the essence of noncommittal.\n<\/p>\n
\nShe sits down, but doesn\u2019t pull her chair into the table. Her eyes fall on the candle flickering at its center, beside the bottle of wine, half of which has been distributed into our glasses.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cAre you okay?\u201d I ask. I\u2019m careful with the next sentence, lest I offend her. \u201cYou don\u2019t look like you\u2019re feeling so great.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nThat\u2019s an understatement. Eliza\u2019s so pale I\u2019m worried she\u2019s about to fall out of her chair. She slumps back in it, half-dead in the face, and doesn\u2019t answer my question.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWe can go if you want,\u201d I say. \u201cIf you\u2019re not well we don\u2019t have to stay. I\u2019ll pay for the wine and we\u2019ll get out of here.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nShe doesn\u2019t say anything.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cEliza.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nStill nothing. I lean back in my chair, brushing my cheek with my knuckles, aware that something\u2019s gone terribly wrong.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe restaurant, which I selected, is a newish place surfing on a wave of delayed hype, the kind of place everyone talks about for a week but no one remembers to actually visit until a couple of months later. In response to rising demand, the powers that be have crammed in as many tables as possible, creating a maze through which the staff careens, running glasses and plates back and forth with manic intensity, near-misses happening all the time. It\u2019s anxiety-inducing to watch, but beautiful in a way.\n<\/p>\n
\nTo the left and right of our table, couples dine so close I could reach out and touch their shoulders without locking my elbow. At a loss with Eliza, I shift my head to the man sitting on a diagonal from my right. Catching me, he raises his eyebrows.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cAre you really not going to say anything?\u201d I return to Eliza to find she\u2019s tilted her head back, to stare up at the distant ceiling. \u201cIf something\u2019s wrong, you can tell me. I\u2019m not going to mind.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nThe woman at the table to my left is studying me, but when we meet eyes she drops hers, embarrassed.\n<\/p>\n
\nPerhaps she\u2019s wondering if she\u2019s witnessing a first-date trainwreck. She\u2019s not. Eliza and I have been seeing each other two or three times a week for a couple of months now, ever since our introduction at a brunch outing with mutual friends. It\u2019s been going well, or so I\u2019d thought until the moment she returned from the bathroom–well enough that I was inspired to hope for the first time since Mikayla and I broke up, plunging me into a morass of bad dates, poorly conceived Tinder messages, and too much drinking on weekday evenings. Eliza and I had similar views of life and relationships, our failures in each inspiring a healthy cynicism that still couldn\u2019t break our natural tendencies toward optimism. She laughed at my bad jokes. I listened to stories about her narcissistic parents. We went to movies, to plays, to bars, to the planetarium. When we weren\u2019t together, we texted regularly, sharing the little things that happened to us on average mornings and typical afternoons, things that didn\u2019t usually leave our heads. I thought we were becoming something. When I rounded onto Congress Street and saw her waiting for me beneath the awning, in her black dress and denim jacket, the pulse in my neck started going faster, and sweat leaked out of my palms.\n<\/p>\n
\nBut now the speeding train has derailed. I observe the wreckage, which doesn\u2019t amount to much–we were in the restaurant only fifteen minutes before she got up to find the restroom–and try to locate the fault, the crack where blame might fit. Our evening had been going well, at least as well as the others. Eliza referenced a joke from our text messages. I complained about my dentist\u2019s appointment. She complimented my new shirt. I told her about the colors in the sky that morning, how I\u2019d meant to send her a photograph like the one she\u2019d sent me.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe waiter comes over. He introduced himself when he brought us glasses of water, but I\u2019ve forgotten his name.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cHow we doing over here?\u201d he asks. \u201cHow\u2019s the wine?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cIt\u2019s good,\u201d I say, taking a sip as if to prove it. When I ordered the bottle, Eliza giggled at my clumsy pronunciation. \u201cI like it.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cExcellent. Would you like to put in any appetizers, or should I give you a couple of minutes?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nBetween my initial rapture with Eliza and my current state of confusion, I haven\u2019t even glanced at the menu.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cA couple of minutes.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cCertainly. I\u2019ll be back.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nAs he dashes off to tend to his other tables, I realize that he never once looked at Eliza. On the far side of the table, she\u2019s sitting upright, with an expression of waiting-room boredom. Her roaming eyes never once land on me. And it might be a trick of the light, or of the wine, but I swear she looks less defined than she did, like she\u2019s steadily fading from view.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI should\u2019ve slapped him,\u201d says the woman to my left to the man across the table, who\u2019s leaning on his elbows. \u201cI would have, too, but my friend was, like, dragging me away.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nDetermined to ignore Eliza as she\u2019s ignoring me–an unsatisfying form of revenge, because I know she\u2019s not going to care–I make a point of inspecting everything in the room with an expression of casual interest, as if that could make her reconsider how she\u2019s treating me. Inside, meanwhile, I\u2019m threatening to boil. In an abstract place behind my stomach, a box that doesn\u2019t really exist contains all the worst parts of me–penchants for self-pity, revolting neediness, and narcissistic anger, all of which I can\u2019t help but indulge, self-flagellation working as an excuse for emotional self-pleasure. These fragments of my narcissism, unleashed by whatever minor stimulus–a message gone ignored, another guy\u2019s joke laughed at, an offhand comment interpreted as a slight–have spoiled every relationship I\u2019ve ever managed to start. With Mikayla I became a seething, touchy, obsessive shell of a person; in the aftermath, I vowed to shut my bad parts away, to weigh them down and bury them somewhere from which they might never resurface. But as I don\u2019t look at Eliza, with pressure mounting behind my eyes, the anchors fail and the box drifts free. Its flaps open and its contents release into my chest, where they merge into a storm. The closest point of egress is my mouth. For five seconds, I fight off words I know I\u2019ll regret.\n<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\n\u201cEliza, if it\u2019s something I did, something I said, anything\u2026 Just tell me and I\u2019ll fix it, I\u2019ll do better, I\u2019ll– Please, Eliza, don\u2019t just sit there, please, I like you so much, I–\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nI happen to glance over and see the man at the table to my right watching me. On his face is written an alphabet of pity and scorn that shuts me up.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cJesus,\u201d I say, placing a hand on my forehead. Then I bend forward, voice dropping to a hiss. \u201cYou\u2019re being very rude. This is no way to treat a person.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nThese sentences fail to provoke the hoped-for reaction. My neck itches, and sweat beads on my stomach, dampening the inside of my new shirt. I\u2019m aware of eyes on me, but don\u2019t dare to look. Eliza gazes into the empty space above my left shoulder.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe waiter returns.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cAny decisions?\u201d he asks, again only addressing me.\n<\/p>\n
\nI throw my eyes to the menu, picking the first item that resolves itself.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWe\u2019ll split the calamari.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI\u2019ll put that right in for you.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nWhen he goes, I\u2019m seized by restlessness, the flight instinct taking over. I stand up too quickly, nearly knocking over my chair, and linger a moment. The man who\u2019d given me the bad look is watching again.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI\u2019m going to the bathroom,\u201d I announce, though I don\u2019t know to whom. I\u2019m sure it won\u2019t make a difference to Eliza whether I\u2019m at the table, in the bathroom, or falling into an unknown dimension, as she appears to be. Before I turn, I observe that she\u2019s become translucent. Shards of chandelier light pass through her paper skin and land on the hardwood floor.\n<\/p>\n
\nWalking off carefully, lest my dizziness overcome me, I stop a passing busboy for directions to the bathroom. He points me to a lighted hallway branching off from the restaurant\u2019s far corner. Just before I push through the swinging door to the men\u2019s room, it opens the other way and I\u2019m nearly toppled by someone exiting.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cCareful, now,\u201d he says, before stuffing his hands into his pockets and strolling back the way I\u2019ve come.\n<\/p>\n
\nIn a small, tiled space, with classical music emanating from the ceiling, I find to my relief that I\u2019m alone. I go to the sink, and grip the countertop with both hands. My reflection is almost as pale as Eliza. Sips of cold water from the tap firm my gelatin legs, and a splash to the face clears my head. I\u2019m staring into the porcelain basin and debating my options when I hear the door open behind me. I don\u2019t raise my head until whoever it is steps up to the neighboring sink and clears his throat.\n<\/p>\n
\nIn the mirror I see the guy who\u2019s taken special interest in my predicament; though his smile is friendly enough, I\u2019m wary.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cHey, man,\u201d he says, \u201cthis isn\u2019t any of my business, I know, but I feel like I should tell you to keep your chin up. It happens to everyone at some point; really, it does. Don\u2019t take it as a reflection of yourself. That\u2019s a nowhere road.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nSo baffled am I by this string of words that I can\u2019t put together a response. The man runs the tap, and starts washing his hands.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cMy advice, unsolicited: don\u2019t waste time moping. You\u2019re already here, you got all dressed up. Might as well enjoy yourself, right? If I were you, I\u2019d order myself a nice big steak, maybe a glass of single malt, whatever you\u2019re into. Try your best not to think about her. Tomorrow\u2019s a new day, yeah? All right. I\u2019ve said more than my piece. I\u2019ll see you out there, friend.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nHe dries his hands under a stream of hot air and is gone, leaving me to watch the door swing back into its frame. After a few moments of aimless staring, I take another mouthful of water, scrub under my fingernails for no reason, and follow him.\n<\/p>\n
\nEven at a distance of thirty feet, I see that Eliza is disintegrating, her matter making its way from the restaurant to somewhere else. The hard lines that composed her have softened and blurred, so that she resembles a loose collection of polygons, the infrastructure for a pencil drawing. Impossible, I know, but it\u2019s happening, and I don\u2019t question it. I cross the floor to the table and sit. Eliza is studying her vanishing fingernails, seemingly uninterested in whatever she\u2019s undergoing.\n<\/p>\n
\nAnd though I\u2019m still angry, still self-hating, still jealous of wherever and whomever is receiving her, I manage to box it all up for the time being, though I wrestle to keep the flaps pinned.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe waiter comes over, a welcome distraction. This time he leans down toward me, so that I know whatever he\u2019s going to say is intended to be private.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI don\u2019t want to embarrass you,\u201d he says, one level above whispering, \u201cbut if you\u2019d like I can take a card and charge you for the wine, and you can slip out. It\u2019ll be very discreet. This may not make you feel better, but I\u2019ve dealt with situations like this before.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nHe waits. I try to speak, clear my throat, try again.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cThat\u2019s all right.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nHe rises to professional height, beaming down at me like he\u2019s just come over, like the last twenty seconds never happened. I make a fuller survey of the menu.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI\u2019ll have the grass-fed ribeye,\u201d I say, \u201cand an old fashioned.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cExcellent choices. And still the calamari?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cStill the calamari, yes.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nHe jets off again, and I\u2019m alone with Eliza, who\u2019s hardly there anymore, just a silhouette. I know better than to try speaking to her. With no outlet for the bitterness in my throat, I pick up my glass of wine. I set it against my lips and, before tilting, happen to look to my right, where the man who gave me the pep talk is fully engaged with a story his date is telling. Still he catches my eye, gives me a subtle nod, and raises his own glass a few inches higher. I nod back, look away, and reduce mine to drops.\n<\/p>\n
\nOnce I swallow, the noise of a dozen surrounding conversations crashes back into my ears, threatening to overwhelm me. I close my eyes. When I open them, ten seconds later, the busboy who directed me to the bathroom is there, taking away Eliza\u2019s unused dishes, stacking the small plate atop the large and the napkin-bound silverware atop that. He leaves the untouched glass of wine, so that, when he heads off, it might appear to any new observer that I\u2019m still waiting for someone to join me.\n<\/p>\n
\nEliza\u2019s chair is pushed slightly away from the table, just as she left it when she got up, smiled at me, and headed to the bathroom, or wherever the fuck she went.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
When Eliza returns from the bathroom, after fifteen minutes that saw me sliding from calm to fretful, she looks pale underneath the low lights produced by the restaurant\u2019s chandeliers. Moving listlessly and a little awkwardly, she drifts along until she pauses in the empty stretch of hardwood floor between the kitchen and the dense puzzle …<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":106240,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3,19780],"tags":[19779],"class_list":["post-136493","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-fiction","category-tcl-30-winter-2019","tag-the-colored-lens-30-winter-2019","entry entry-center"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/136493","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/106240"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=136493"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/136493\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":136494,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/136493\/revisions\/136494"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=136493"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=136493"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=136493"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}