A Cherry Tomato Is A Sensual Thing

It is.  Try this: Gently take one in your mouth, all at once…and bite down on it.  That, my friends, is pure sensuality.

I’ve been thinking about sensuality quite a bit, lately, but mostly in a distracted and steadfastly self-absorbed way.  Everywhere I turn, the Universe is taunting me with images of what Meg described as “all the true love [I am] looking for in life.”  And, as I may have mentioned, I am a tad frustrated with the taunting.

Last week, after a particularly hard couple of days at work, I felt the need to have someone serve me dinner.  This was a purely selfish thing, but trust me when I say I deserved to lay on a chaise longue and be fed a variety of tasty morsels by what Michael Palin calls “maidens of the Orient.”  

(“…and there, strokéd was he by maidens of the Orient.  For sixteen days and nights strokéd they him.  Yea, verily, and caresséd him.  His hair ruffléd they, and their fingers rubbeth they in oil of olives, and runneth them across all parts of his body, forasmuch as to soothe him.
“And the soles of his feet licketh they, and the upper parts of his thigh did they anoint with a balm of forbidden trees.
“And with the teeth of their mouths nibbleth they the pointed bits at the top of his ears, yeah, verily, and with their tongues thereof make themselves acquainted with his most secret places.”)

There is somewhat of an art to eating alone in a restaurant.  The trick is to look as though you want to be eating alone.  You can’t go empty-handed into a sit-down restaurant and eat a meal by yourself.  That’s just creepy.  

A book takes the curse off it.  If you’re reading while you eat, then while you may still appear sad and lonely, you at least seem to have the means at hand of coping with your solitude.  

Choosing the right restaurant is essential.  If it’s noisy, there is no hope of actually reading anything, and no amount of subterfuge can hide the fact that you’re basically just watching the people around you like some urban version of Dian Fossey.  You might as well start snapping pictures and taking notes for “Coffee Drinkers in the Mist”.

I knew of the perfect restaurant, of course, because during my divorce, I lived in the barracks for a while and solitary dining out had been a way of life.  I stopped at the Bookstar on my way there, and picked up “How To Be Good” by Nick Hornby.

Now, back when I was solitary more often (before my daughter came to live with me), I ate dinner in this particular restaurant quite frequently.  It’s safe to say that I read a fair portion of Patrick O’Brian’s Aubrey/Maturin series (all twenty of them) while dining alone there.  

So it was a bit like returning to the womb.  Maybe that’s not a good analogy.
The waitress I always hoped for back then is now the manager.  It took me a moment to recognize her: she’s gone blonde.  While I was admittedly staring at her, trying to place her, she caught me and gave me a quizzical look as she asked me if I had everything I needed.

Later, at the register, I smiled apologetically and said, “I’m sorry about that.  You totally caught me staring at you earlier.”

“No worries,” she said.  “I just hope everything was okay.”

“You don’t remember me, do you?” I asked.  She narrowed her eyes and looked closely at me as I continued, “I remember when you first started here as a waitress.  I used to come here a lot and always tried to get seated in your section.  That was, what, five or six years ago?”  I never could figure out her schedule, so I never got to be one of her regulars.

She smiled.  “That would be about right.  I’ve been working here for five and a half years.  I’m sorry I don’t remember you!  It’s been a while since you were here, hasn’t it?”

I assured her that it had been, and she told me to come back soon.  “Don’t be a stranger,” she said.

So, facing dinner on my own again this evening, I grabbed Hornby and headed there again, hoping that Tuesday nights were a regular night for her.  

They are.

Better, she greeted me with a coy smile and a warm, “You’re back!  I remember you this time!”

Now, some guys might have said something like, “…and I’ve never forgotten you,” but I’ve never been that much like Sean Connery.  Besides, that kind of a remark only sounds good if you speak with a bit of a slur in your Scottish accent.

I settled for asking her how her Christmas was, and after she’d seated me, I basked in the warmth of being remembered, which is, it turns out, also a sensual thing.

See, it’s such a small deal, being remembered by someone whose job it is to make her customers feel special, but I’m learning to relish those tiny flickers.  Moments like that are like cherry tomatoes – you should take them in whole, bite down, and savor the burst of Connection.