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{first date} rebecca van laer She orders oysters, of course I don’t know how to do this, to slip a three-pronged fork under the white flesh of some mollusk and wiggle soft globes of muscle from the black mass of shell, the lemongrass broth the dense gem swims in— how to pop it out and into my mouth and then suck, savor the dense slip of it, then again: a sequence of teasing, eating, repeating, and this is only our appetizer. I’m gulping My glass of pinot grigio, wet fingerprints along the stem because I can’t pronounce the name of a single entrée, meet her eyes across a candelabra with the weight of a fresco above her head, ridiculous cherubs entreating with their fat blue eyes. Beside, the dark drapes and the billowing shapes of tablecloths curtain off any eaves this conversation could fade into, so it’s spotlight perspective, precarious. She’s tongue tumbling into me, an outpouring of asks until I spill sauce, a thin line of it down the buttons on my blouse–she dabs at me with her burgundy napkin, freshly dampened for the task. I shut my eyes and feel the whirl of the room, the orangey angels and her dry palms pressed against my chest, wonder if I’ll open up full-mouthed and mind-tied. |
