Love Hacked

It did things to me.

Alex the waiter and his bedroom voice almost made all my failed first dates worth the bother, because Alex saying “I’ll be serving you tonight” was typically the highlight of the evening. It was all downhill from there.

I gave him a polite nod and, as usual, Alex’s smile flattened into a straight line.

Alex the waiter, it seemed, didn’t like me much.

“Hi. Can you tell me about…?”

“Let me order for you.” Chuck startled me by reaching across the table and tugging on my menu.

My gaze turned from Alex to melon face. “Oh, that’s not necessary—I know what I….”

“I insist. Then I can pair the wine seamlessly.” Chuck winked at me, then turned to Alex and said, “We’ll start with a bottle of your Parducci, chilled at forty degrees for ten minutes then aerated. I’ll have the chicken tandoori, and the lady will have saag paneer.”

Chuck handed Alex our menus, then grinned at me, so pleased with himself. I didn’t grin back. I don’t believe in rewarding poor behavior.

Other than accepting the menus, Alex didn’t move.

“So, Sandra—I was about to tell you about this—well, this girl you remind me of.” Chuck leaned forward and pushed his knife a few millimeters closer to his spoon.

“A girl?” I cleared my throat, keenly aware that Alex still hadn’t left.

“Yes. You remind me of her.” He glanced at his silverware and muttered, mostly to himself, “It’s really uncanny.”

I stared at Chuck, horrified. Alex cleared his throat, drawing my attention back to him. He must’ve liked my horrified expression because, uncharacteristically, he was smiling again, and wider this time.

“Butter chicken?” Alex asked.

I nodded once, then released a sigh. “Yeah. This won’t take long.”

Alex returned my single nod, his black eyebrows ticking upward a half-centimeter. “Then shall I cancel the other?”

“Yes, please, thank you.”

Alex’s smile was wry as his nebulous eyes moved over my face. I was surprised to see his gaze linger on my mouth for a short second before he turned and sauntered back to the kitchen. I watched his backside and broad shoulders as he walked away. He had an irreverent, careless walk—not quite a swagger; it was a bedroom walk, just like his voice.

I sighed again, thinking how nice it was watching Alex walk away, and found myself wondering about Alex’s age.

I guessed twenty-two or twenty-three, a late bloomer. His body didn’t seem fully-grown yet; his hands were just a bit too big, and he had that gait of a careless teenager.

But his eyes were unfathomable and steeled. When I looked into his eyes, the rest of his physicality seemed to age; he had the eyes of man.

A wicked, wicked man.

“Sandra?”

I yanked my gaze away from Alex’s backside and found the honeydew watching me, his expression muddled confusion.

“What was all that about?” Chuck indicated with his head in the direction of Alex’s departing form. Apparently, he wanted an explanation for our strange conversation.

“Oh, nothing. Why don’t you tell me more about your mother?” I rested my hands on my lap and prepared myself to listen to whatever Chuck was ready to tell me.

“Uh, I didn’t—I mean, I wasn’t talking about my mother.”

“Your father raised you, right?” I kept my voice gentle, my face carefully blank of expression.

He nodded, appearing both mystified and awestruck. “Yes, but how did you know…?”

“But he didn’t raise you, did he? Did he travel a lot, or did he work a lot?”

Chuck leaned forward, his elbows practically hitting the table in front of him, and his story gushed forth like blood from an untended arterial wound. “He didn’t travel. My parents divorced when I was only seven, and my mom took my sister. I stayed with my dad. He worked…he worked all the time.”

And so it began.

I listened to Chuck’s tale of upper middle class childhood abandonment and neglect. I felt for him, I did, just like I felt for all the others. It seemed our society was raising a generation of fractured children, more an accessory to their parents than living, breathing, feeling beings. They plugged him into the wall via television and video games; then took him out when convenient, mostly around the holidays.

When Alex came back with the bottle of wine, Chuck didn’t seem to notice, as he was knee deep in relating a story about his father’s new wife. I noted that Chuck still called the woman “Dad’s new wife” even though they’d now been married over fifteen years.

Darting glances between Chuck and Alex to keep the attention of both, I completed the cursory wine tasting and nodded once at Alex that I was pleased with the bottle.

When Alex came back with the garlic naan, Chuck was banging on the table with his fist. He was elbow deep in a story about winning a cross-country race in high school; it was a success about which—even to this day—his father had no idea.

When Alex came back with my butter chicken, Chuck was holding his face in his hands and sobbing quietly; Alex had just set the plate on the table in front of me when Chuck struggled to stand from our booth, not even noticing that Alex hadn’t brought his entree. I stood and gave Chuck my support, helped him to his feet and pressed Thomas’s card into his hand.

“God, Sandra, I can’t thank you enough. I—I just feel….” Chuck choked as a small sob escaped his lips.

I rubbed his arm with an open palm. “It gets better. Talking about it will make a difference.”

He nodded, either unable or unwilling to speak, and wiped his eyes with the back of his hands.

“You’re not alone, Charles.”

Chuck reached out and grabbed my hand.

“Oh, God. Dinner. I am so sorry.” Chuck’s lost eyes scanned the table, and I gave his hand a calming squeeze. He seemed completely blind to the patrons at the only other table occupied in the restaurant. They were casting curious glances our way, but trying not to be obvious about it.

“It’s okay, Chuck. Just go home and take care of you.” I gently pulled on Chuck’s hand and led him to the door. “Go get some sleep, and call Thomas’s office in the morning.” When Chuck’s shell-shocked eyes found mine, new tears threatened to spill over, so I gave him a small smile. “Tell him that Dr. Fielding sent you and you’ll get a discount on your first two sessions.”

He nodded, abruptly pulled me into a hug, and then, just as abruptly, withdrew and dashed out the door.

I watched his retreating form for a short moment and considered the fact that I was going to have to finish that bottle of wine by myself. This wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. I had Saturdays off and could afford to sleep in. I waited until Chuck disappeared around the corner at the end of the block before returning to my waiting plate of butter chicken.

On the way back, I stepped to the side to allow the last customers to exit; their departure meant I was the only paying customer left in the restaurant. As I strolled back to my table, I decided to ask Alex to pack up the chicken and cork the wine—no need to make him stay late on my account.

However, as I neared my table, I realized that it was now occupied; well, Chuck’s seat was occupied—by Alex. My seat was empty. My steps faltered as our eyes met.

He was looking at me—looking at me like I was something to be observed, studied, and his plainly untrusting gaze seemed to grow more guarded as I approached.

When I was a few steps from my abandoned chair, I stopped and just stood there, stalled, not sure what to do. It struck me as a very odd moment. I was standing at the edge of a table where Alex was sitting. In essence, we had switched places.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hello,” he said.

My attention flickered to the table. In front of him was a plate of saag goat or lamb—impossible to tell which—with a side of mango chutney, and he’d already raided the previously untouched basket of garlic naan.

Also, he’d poured himself a glass of my wine.

I met his gaze again. The circumspection in his eyes was disconcerting. He licked his lips.

“Please have a seat.” He motioned to my untouched plate of butter chicken.

I looked at him. I looked at the wine. I looked at my plate of butter chicken. I shrugged.

“Sure. Why not?”

I sat, placed the napkin on my lap, and took a generous bite of the chicken and jasmine rice. It was, as usual, a delicious replacement for physical contact, my comfort food.

I glanced at Alex again. He also was delicious—delicious and watching me as though I were not delicious. In fact, his expression made me feel rather fetid. My heart rate increased inexplicably. I felt like a skittish rabbit. This was noteworthy, as I usually felt like an optimistic octopus.

“How is your butter chicken, Sandra?”

I started, my fork suspended in the air for a beat, but I quickly recovered. “How do you know my name, Alex?”

“Your credit card, Sandra. I ring up your tab with it every Friday night.”

“Oh.” I frowned at him. Something was just off about him. He seemed to dislike me, but here he was having dinner with me, uninvited. I wasn’t used to people disliking me. Hmm…curious, that. “I’m not here every Friday night.”