Incident at North Beach
“Hey.”
“Hey,” I say to Al while I push a lock of hair behind my ear.
It’s just past eight in the evening and I’m almost perfectly on time. Only a quarter of an hour ago I would have never believed it was possible. And yet against all odds here we are, standing outside my house. We’re both a little nervous and don’t really know what to say, and I am dressed way more showily than he is. I’m not quite sure how I managed it, but I somehow succeeded in getting a red sheath dress to fit me and it made me so happy that I decided to ignore the symptoms of asphyxiation that I started feeling as soon as I closed the zipper and just enjoy the moment. But now that I can’t go back in and get changed I am really starting to miss my leggings and pullover: if I were wearing them, at least I’d be able to make simple gestures – you know, like lifting my arms up.
The thing is that I feel like there’s some sort of heavy stone on my chest. I can’t move properly, my hands are tingling… it’s not the dress’s fault, it’s just my anxiety. I don’t recall ever being this nervous before in all my life. I just can’t keep still: I scratch my nose, then fix my dress… I just don’t know what to say nor where to look. The last time I actually went on a date was so long ago that I really don’t remember what I’m supposed to do any more, and in addition to that I’ve also got the stupid feeling that all my neighbours are spying on us incredulously from behind their curtains. I know, it’s just my paranoia, and I can usually handle it okay, but right now I’ve got one too many internal conflicts to deal with. And you’re not going to get to Nirvana on your first date, are you?
“Are you okay?” Al asks me, raising one of his eyebrows.
Why does he have to be so incredibly handsome? He didn’t even need to dress up: he’s wearing a pair of jeans and a hoodie, so I guess it didn’t take him more than ten minutes to get ready. I usually spend my first half an hour just trying to open the tub of foundation cream.
“Sam?” he says, touching my arm in search of some kind of reaction.
“Yes?”
“Are you okay?” He repeats.
“Me? Sure,” I lie. “Everything’s fine.”
Al doesn’t reply, but judging from his expression, I’d guess he’s still sceptical.
“It’s this dress,” I say to try and explain my anxiety. He leans back to check it out and doesn’t seem to understand what I’m referring to. “It’s too tight,” I explain. “And my hair is…” I continue while trying to straighten it. “I ran out of hair mousse, and now it looks…” I can’t find the right words to describe it. “I look ridiculous, I’m sorry.”
“Let me take a look at you,” murmurs Al, and moves closer to inspect me better. He starts by looking at my feet, and then gradually raises his gaze as he studies all the details of my outfit. When his eyes eventually meet mine, he caresses me and says, almost in a whisper, “You’re gorgeous.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Don’t you?”
“No,” I admit, while trying to avoid his gaze as much as possible.
“Can I kiss you?” he says, the candour of his tone taking me by surprise.
“But… where?” I ask, flustered. “Here? Now?”
Al doesn’t reply, but takes my face in his hands, bends over me and kisses me as if he had been waiting for that moment for all his life – as if in that moment the entire world around us has disappeared. He continues kissing me, ignoring the passing cars and even Mrs Philips, who is pretending she is throwing something in the trash can just so she can make sure this man is actually holding me. Even Mr Cooth’s horrible cat shows up to sharpen its claws on the saddle of an old motorbike belonging to the new resident on the fourth floor, Brad. Al eventually opens his eyes and takes a long, deep breath, remaining close to my lips and maintaining eye contact with me. “I couldn’t wait for the goodnight kiss,” he jokes. Immediately afterwards, though, his expression grows worried. “Are you mad at me?” His eyes seem to be begging me to say ‘no’.
“I…” I try to answer but can’t come up with anything. My confusion doesn’t come from the fact that I’m not sure whether I wanted that kiss – on the contrary, the problem is that I just found out that I had actually been longing for it. My life was simple before I met him: I knew exactly who I was and what I wanted and I was perfectly aware that I would never be able to get what I wanted while still being who I was. Now, though, it all feels as though it’s slipping through my fingers – the boundaries are becoming thinner and thinner and I feel more and more disorientated, my thoughts are confused, my heart is pounding and there is one single absurd question in my mind: can a kiss taste of apricot? Because I swear that Al tastes of apricot. I think that it might be the most astonishing discovery of all my life, and it’s still only eight thirty in the evening. He’s really soft too – I mean it, his lips are as soft as…
What the hell am I thinking?
Oh, my God, I don’t know what’s happening to me, but it strikes me that for one moment I actually wasn’t thinking about Dave! That has never happened before. What if I’m on the right track towards getting over him? Just the idea makes me panic: for me Dave isn’t just some deputy editor I fell in love with – he’s the rock where I ran ashore, the comforting thought in the night, my daydream. Dave is the pillar around which I’ve built all my castles in the air, and the thought of losing him makes me feel dizzy, as though there’s nothing for me to hold onto any more while I fantasise about what could never be. At least until I met Al. Now I’m a different person, I’m not the same Sam I was a few weeks ago. And when I reply “No, I’m not mad at you,” Al seems to believe me for once. It’s almost like he realises that I’m starting to grasp a truth that was always clear to him. So he looks around, smiles, then takes my hand and leads me towards his car.
“So, do you want to get something to eat? I’m starving!”
After about twenty minutes we’re roaming about in North Beach, enjoying the various odours of the city. It’s always crowded in the evening, plus the weather is nice at the moment, and then there’s the fashion festival, which always brings in a lot of curious people. It’s nice to see all the people coming and going and watch the buskers playing their music, and I let him lead me through the neon signs to a small Italian restaurant. There aren’t too many people waiting for a table inside, the sofas look very comfortable and I have heard that the pizza here is really nice. Judging from the ones I see a waiter carrying to a couple sitting by the cashier, they certainly do look tasty.
“Please, take a seat!” says a middle aged man with a thick black moustache and a pot belly. “My name is Oreste, and I’m the head waiter here. A table for two?” he asks, while indicating a free table not far from the entrance.
“What do you think about that one?” Al asks me.
“It’s fine with me.”
“It’s fine with her.”
“Great, just give me a minute to get it ready for you then.”
“Wait, hold on a sec,” says Al suddenly, looking slightly apprehensive. “Sam,” he says, “would you mind if we take another table? It’s a little crowded in here.”
“I don’t mind,” I reassure him, “we can sit wherever you want.”
“Could we have a table in the other room?” Al asks Oreste, indicating a table in a private area, separated from the rest of the room by a hand-decorated divider.
“I’m afraid that’s already taken,” Oreste explains apologetically. “But table twelve should be free in a few minutes. Would you like to wait at the bar? I’ll ask Pete to prepare an aperitif for you,” he adds, “compliments of the house.”
Al wants me to decide, and I can’t resist the way he looks at me. So I nod and we take a stool at the cosy little bar where they serve me a glass of red wine. I know it’s not the champagne of the Ritz, but I am absolutely fine with it anyway.
“Do you like it here?” Al asks me, to break the silence.
“It’s nice,” I reply, hiding my nose in the glass and blushing when I see him looking at me. “What? What is it?”
“Nothing, what do you mean?”
“I… I don’t know,” I stutter confused. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“How am I looking at you?” He puts his Manhattan cocktail on the counter and smiles at me.
“I don’t know… Have I got wine on my face?” I ask, wetting my finger in my mouth and running it around my lips.
“Ah…” The gesture seems to floor him – he looks as though he’s hypnotised by my mouth. At first he doesn’t know what to say, and then he bursts out laughing and murmurs, “Right, how about we decide on a list of things you should never do when you’re with me and there are other people around?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m serious, let’s do it for the sake of my mental health.” He picks his cocktail back up and takes a swallow. “I’m not asking for anything too difficult, just what’s strictly necessary for me to survive until I manage to drag you to my bedroom.”
“Al!” I scold him. “Are you out of your mind?” But even though I try to stay serious, I can’t help smiling. I am really trying to behave the way I imagine you’re supposed to on a first date, but it’s practically impossible with him. “Do you realise this is the first time that we’ve gone out together?”
“Yep…” he replies, nodding his head.
“Okay,” I laugh, “so what is this list you were talking about?”
He starts chewing on an olive and pondering. “Let’s see,” he says while staring at the ceiling. “First of all, you should never pull any of those weird faces you make when you’re not feeling confident.”
“Hey, I never pull weird faces!” I protest.
“Oh, yes, you do,” he confirms without looking at me. “You frown, you wrinkle your nose…”
“That’s not true!”
“And all those expressions really mess with me.”
“Oh sure…” I mutter. “And for your information, I don’t pull weird faces.”
“You should also not sway when you walk.”
“I sway?”
“Yeah, you know what I mean… You sometimes walk like a cat that’s looking to be petted…”
“Al, are you sure that you’re not mixing me up with someone else?” I ask, thinking he’s just teasing me.
“And you can’t dress sexy!”
“Oh, okay, well that’s easy enough – I never dress sexy.”
“That’s not true.”
“What do you mean?”
“You have all those terrible little dresses…”
“Like this one?” I say, shrugging a shoulder up with an innocent expression on my face. He closes his eyes for a moment, then goes back to looking at the olives, trying not to show his irritation.
“This one, the black one, the blue one… That other blue top that’s braided on the back and that green one with… with…” He indicates one of his shoulders, “with something here…”
“Al, are you by any chance talking about my old knitted pullover with the cats on it?”
“Yes, especially the old knitted pullover with the cats on it!”
“Okay,” I burst out laughing, “you’re just teasing me.”
“No, I’m absolutely serious! And I know that you know that you drive me crazy when you wear those things and that you do it on purpose!”
“Follow me, please,” I hear the waiter saying to someone. “I’m certain that your table is almost ready, but just let me check,” he explains obsequiously. I can’t help but notice that his tone is quite different to the one he used when he talked to us. He then comes over to the bar and says, “Please, be patient for just a few more moments. Your table is almost ready.”
As the maître d’ goes back to the other room, I follow him with my eyes, curious about his change of tone. I only realise the client he was talking to is sitting right next to me when I hear him say my name.
“Sam?”
I turn towards the voice instinctively, but when I realise that it belongs to Dave I feel as though I’m paralysed. He’s wearing a casual outfit, hasn’t shaved and is wearing a cologne that makes my head spin.
“Er…” I stammer, “h… hi Dave,” I finally say, feeling enormously embarrassed.
It’s really Dave. Dave ‘what the hell are you doing here?’ Callaghan. With the millions of restaurants, streets and neighbourhoods in this city, what the hell is he doing here? Anyway, it only takes a single look at him for me to realise that I am totally not over him. I was fooling myself when I thought that I’d found a way out of my crush, but it was just a mirage. A gentle breeze would be enough to blow it away.
“Sam,” he repeats in a more confident voice.
On the other side of me I hear Al clear his throat and I realise hoping that one of them magically disappears is not going to work and that I’m going to have to bite the bullet.
“Where are my manners?” I trill as soon as I’ve regained the power of speech. “Al, this is Dave Callaghan, editor in chief at The Chronicle,” I say, introducing them to each other, despite a very strong impression that neither of them really wants to know the other. “And,” I say after a deep breath, turning towards Dave, “this is Al,” I think about it for a moment and add, “Just Al.”
“Yes,” mutters Dave, barely lifting his head in greeting.
Al’s reply is just as enthusiastic.
They study one another suspiciously but neither of them say anything else, so we end up sitting there in silence for a few moments, each of us staring at a different part of the restaurant and hoping we’ll be able to get out of this torture as soon as possible.
“Dave, I didn’t think you liked Italian food. What an amazing coincidence!” I say, coming out with the stupidest thing I can think of, just to break the gloomy silence.
“Yeah, amazing,” mutters Al, hunched over his cocktail behind me.
“Haven’t we met before?” Dave asks Al, after observing him more closely.
“I doubt it,” Al replies in a bored voice, “I’m sure I’d remember.”
“I must have confused you with someone else then.”
“So how come you’re here?” I intervene.
“I come here quite often,” explains Dave while still staring at Al in a way I know very well. He’s trying to appear indifferent, but the truth is that he’s feeling challenged and his only desire now is to defeat his enemy and prove his own intellectual superiority.
“Ah, I see – you’re a regular, then.” Of course he is, it would have been weird if he wasn’t. And of course I had to end up in the one restaurant where my boss always has dinner. “It’s the first time I’ve been here, but it looks nice,” I comment, certain that he isn’t listening.
“Excuse me,” says a girl, approaching us with envious eyes. I understand how she’s feeling, it must be hard to accept I am the one sitting there between them. “Is the white car parked outside yours?” she asks Dave.
“No, it’s mine,” replies Al, the corner of his mouth twisting into a wry smile.
“Uh,” she sighs, and I’m guessing she wouldn’t know who to choose between the two men. “I’m sorry, but I can’t get out of my parking space.” She laughs nervously and apologises. “I’m sorry, but I’m just so lame at reversing…”
Pathetic. She really is pathetic. Why doesn’t she just admit that she’s looking for a husband? Wouldn’t that be more honest?
“No problem. Sam, do you mind?” Al asks me, while taking his car keys out of the pocket of his jeans.
“Of course not, I’ll wait for you here.” I let him go and try to look busy by fiddling with my empty glass.
As soon as Al is far enough away, Dave focuses all his attention on me. More specifically, he seems to be very interested in my dress, as he analyses every single detail of it with a surly expression on his face, dismantling the little self-confidence I had built up over the last few weeks. Feeling very confused and insecure, I let him observe me indulgently. He takes his time, seemingly not caring how his behaviour might make me feel. He studies my legs and my neckline, and only after some time does he finally look at my face, noticing my wide open eyes.
I smile.
He glares back.
“So is he your boyfriend?” he asks, as I open my mouth in the hope of saying something funny.
“Who? Al?” I shake my head. “No, he’s not my boyfriend.”
“But are you dating him?” He insists.
I’d like to say no, but all these questions are starting to get on my nerves. It almost feels like I’m not allowed to have a private life. This is none of his business, and apart from his questions being inappropriate, I really don’t understand why he’s acting so cold all of a sudden. It’s not like I’ve done anything wrong, for God’s sake!
“Yes,” I snap back, folding my arms across my chest.
He wasn’t expecting that. He looks at me in confusion then turns towards the door, probably hoping to see Terry or Jane enter the restaurant, proving that it’s all just been a misunderstanding.
“Is that a problem?” I ask him, summoning up all the courage I can. And believe me – for me, talking back to him is one of the hardest things to do on the planet.
“No,” he says, after a long break. “It’s just that he didn’t look like…”
“Look like what?”
“He doesn’t look like your type.”
“And what would my type be, then?” I ask, despite not being sure that I want to know.
“Well…” he hesitates. The waiter stops him from saying any more, by giving him a bag full of food.
“Here you are, Mr Callaghan. Red chicory rolls, ravioli and roast potatoes with rosemary.”
“Thanks, Oreste. You can put it on my tab.”
“I already did, Sir. Oh, there he is,” he says to Al, who’s walking back over to us and fixing his hoodie. “Your table is ready, would you like to follow me?” he asks us both gently.
“Of course,” I nod, desperate to put at least fifty people between me and the man of my dreams.
“Yep,” Al confirms.
“Well… Have a nice evening, Dave” I say.
“Sure…” He nods towards me and gives Al another look. “You have a nice evening too,” he says while turning his back on me and walking away.