Dinner Special
It was a muggy Friday night and Kate, as she forced her way through the sticky wall of air before her, wished she had remained in her air conditioned apartment instead of toughing it out on the city sidewalks. Sure, her squealing roommate Tiffany had invited several of her equally high decibel friends over for their monthly book club, an event which Kate usually markedly avoided lest she lose her hearing at the premature age of 27. However, as…pitchy as a night at home sounded, Kate suspected it was still preferable to the night before her.
Kate was going on a blind date. It had been months since she had ended her relationship with Brian-who-wore-sunglasses-at-night. Before that there had been Jared-who-thought-he-could-fix-everything and before Jared she had dumped Kevin-who-always-wore-plaid. And then there had been Nate. Dating him had been unbearable, since people thought it was so cute that Kate and Nate were going on a date. In her time, Kate had dated lots of guys, and none of them, she prided herself, had been products of set ups. Until now.
“You’ll love Jeremy,” Amy had insisted as she bobbed her head over the partition dividing their cubicles. “He’s cute and has a great job and makes loads of money! He doesn’t wear plaid or sunglasses!”
Kate had finally relented just to shut Amy up so she could get back to her reports. And now, as Kate’s stilletto’d heels clacked their way to the stained glass doors of the upscale establishment known as Chez Mon Oncle, she regretted her decision. Just wait until her mother found out she had been on a blind date. And her mother would find out. Tiffany had developed an annoying phone friendship with Kate’s mom, a product of Tiffany’s indiscriminating friendliness and Sharon’s drive to know every detail of Kate’s life. By tomorrow “Sharon Tremblay” would flash on Kate’s cell phone, and Kate could already hear her mother’s words ringing in her ears: “You’re going on blind dates now? How come you never told me? Well darling, I have dozens of excellent prospective beaux just dying to meet a beautiful career woman like you! Why, there’s Fred and Olive’s son Gregory—do you remember him? He used to play T-ball with your brother. He recently got out of a divorce and I’m sure he’s looking. Or Charlie Russell. Honey, he’s a lawyer. I’ve got his number somewhere around here—hold on and I’ll find it for you.”
Kate had never been to Chez Mon Oncle before. She had been a bit distressed when Amy informed her it was all set up—Chez Mon Oncle at 7:30 on Friday night. Not that Kate minded starting off a relationship at a pricey restaurant; it boded well for Jeremy’s financial situation. No, the problem was Kate didn’t like French food. Or Mexican food. Or Thai food. Or Japanese, Chinese, or Indian food. Kate had always been a picky eater. Her parents hoped she would grow out of the phase, but Kate’s gastronomic horizons had not widened as she grew older. She liked Italian food, some Bohemian food, and not much else.
Kate shot Guarino’s, the Italian eatery across the street, a longing glance and plunged ahead into Chez Mon Oncle.
At least Chez Mon Oncle was well air conditioned. Kate approached the Maitre d’, a severe looking man with a pencil mustache straight off Rhett Butler.
“Bon soir, madame,” he greeted her.
Oh come on. Couldn’t he just can it with the French? It’s not like anyone here actually spoke it! Dropping foreign phrases was one of Kate’s pet peeves. It was such an annoying, pretentious habit.
“Hello,” she replied. “I believe my reservation is under Hunter.”
“Mais oui,” he said, causing Kate to internally roll her eyes. “This way, s’il vous plait.”
The Maitre D’ led her to a table already occupied by a well dressed man, in an old fashioned tweed suit. His hair was fair and curly and he wore granny glasses. He regarded her expectantly as she and the Maitre D’ approached.
“Votre table, madame,” the Maitre D’ announced unnecessarily and pulled out the chair for her. After Kate sat down, the Maitre D’ gave a brisk bow and returned to his station, leaving Kate sitting across from a man she had never met.
He was not unpleasant looking, Kate decided, but certainly not her physical type. He was rather baby faced and Kate usually avoided blonds. After all, she herself was a blonde, and there was something far too recessive about two towheads dating each other.
But there would be time to analyze all that after introductions. And as he wasn’t making the first move, it would have to be her. “Hi,” she greeted him. “You must be Jeremy. I’m Kate.” She held her hand out, only instead of shaking it, he grasped it and brought it to his lips.
“Enchanted,” he assured her as he released her hand. “Amanda has told me so much about you.”
“Amanda?” If the hand kissing hadn’t taken her off her guard, mistaking the name of their mutual friend certainly had.
“Amanda Gryzbowski…your coworker?” His blue eyes peered at her quizzically through his granny glasses.
“Oh! Amy!” Kate laughed in relief.
“Amanda is her full name,” Jeremy informed her.
“Right,” Kate waved away Jeremy’s point with the same hand he had so recently kissed. “So how do you know Amy?”
“Amanda and I are regular attendees of Trivia Night at Daedalus’s Corner,” he explained. Catching Kate’s confused expression, he told her Daedalus’s Corner was a bookstore.
“Oh. Does a man named Daedalus own it?”
“No Katherine,” Jeremy sighed. “Daedalus was the name of an ancient Greek inventor.”
“My name’s Kate,” she reminded him. Okay, so maybe she didn’t know the name of some ancient inventor—at least she could remember the name of the person she was on a date with.
Jeremy did not seem to be phased by this correction. “You will forgive me, but Katherine is your full name?”
“Yeah,” Kate admitted. “But nobody ever calls me that. Everyone calls me my nickname.”
“Yes well,” Jeremy paused took in a deep breath, “I do so dislike referring to people by nicknames.” As he said this last word, he drew it in air quotes. Kate had a fleeting impression of one of her short lived high school boyfriends: Barry-who-used-air-quotes-too-much. “I find it belittles the conversation,” Jeremy continued to explain. “When I speak to someone I insist on using his or her true name.” He raised his baby chin defiantly.
“Right,” Kate said slowly, trying to mask her annoyance. “But you see, no one ever calls me Katherine, so it isn’t really my name…”
“Well Katherine, perhaps it is time we put a stop to that practice.”
It was just as well that their waiter, Michel, chose that moment to introduce himself, hand them their menus, and rattle off the specials. Michel also informed them the specials were delicious. It was a good thing he did because Kate wouldn’t have known it otherwise; his descriptions were riddled with far too many French nonsense words for her to extract much meaning. Jeremy, on the other hand, regarded Michel with the steady look which could only accompany complete comprehension.
After Michel left, Kate looked down at the menu, and found herself lost in a confusing pidgin of English and French. Steak she knew—but what was au frites? She suspected Jeremy would know, but she wasn’t raring to hear him explain it. Hmm…maybe the salmon? At least she knew what that was…
Jeremy asked her to approve his choice in wine, which Kate did automatically. It didn’t make a different to her. She wasn’t wild about any wine, really preferring beer.
When Kate looked up from her menu she realized that Jeremy was further explaining the Trivia Team.
“…and I do not wish to blow my trumpet, but I am the most valuable member on our team. Timothy—he is an inquiry agent by profession—is quite talented at sports, a subject in which I admit to be sorely lacking. The only sport I follow is football.”
At last Kate heard something she could latch onto. “You like football? What’s your favorite team? I like the Stealers, which is sort of unusual around here, but I grew up just outside of Pittsburgh.”
“Oh I am sorry,” Jeremy apologized. “When I say football I mean—well, you would call it soccer.”
“I would call it…” Kate paused. “Are you British? You sure don’t have an accent.”
“No, no,” Jeremy said. “I grew up in Iowa, though I did attend Cambridge.”
“You got into Cambridge?” she exclaimed, impressed despite herself. “Wow.”
“Well,” Jeremy admitted, “not quite. I actually attended the University of Iowa, though I did study abroad at Cambridge for a semester in year three.”
Kate felt her respect fading fast. “But that must have been, like, ten years ago. Why are you using British words?”
“They gave us this language,” Jeremy explained, “so I feel it is only fair to use their English—correct English. That is the reason for which I also eschew American spelling. An odious bastardization!”
And all her respect was gone. She never should have listened to Amy. This guy was a pompous moron, and now she was obligated to listen to his dumb lease on life for the evening. Great.
It was at this moment something on the menu caught her eye. How about that? Maybe this date could be salvaged after all.
Half an hour later Michel brought Jeremy his Chicken Paillard. In front of Kate he set down a covered platter and a pristine linen smock. Michel lifted the cover to reveal a plate of rust colored clay.
“Bonne chance, madame,” he wished her as he left the table.
Jeremy was too busy tucking into his chicken paillard to notice anything was afoot, which is why it was so easy for Kate to stand up and dump her plate of clay on him. His entire body went rigid and his blue eyes now had a trance like gaze. A bit eerie, actually. Kate pushed down his eyelids—and she had better take those ridiculous glasses off him while she was at it.
That was better. Now to get to work.
The beginning was the hardest. Kate had to knead the stiff clay until Jeremy’s body absorbed it. Clay stuck underneath her fingernails and dried onto her arms, but at last she achieved her goal. Jeremy was ready to be molded.
First of all, he needed a couple of inches of height. She stuck the leftover clay to the bottom of his shoes and reformed his lower legs and feet. There. Now he was 6’1”. She probably could have shot a little higher but she had other things to worry about. She had to change his clothing from that ridiculous suit to more casual dinner wear. She imagined a fashionable, button up shirt—some dark color. Maybe an inky blue. Yeah—no tie. She wanted him to be looser, not as stuffy. She generously pounded more clay into his arms, transforming Jeremy’s twigs to worthy biceps. His hands were acceptable. Besides, it was usually better not to fool around with those. A parade of hand mistakes marched through Kate’s head: Tom with his fingers stuck together, Mark’s lumpy palms, Harry’s disproportionate thumbs…
No, Jeremy would keep his hands.
Onto his face…
She hardened his jawline, lengthened his nose, redefined his cheekbones, and completely reformed his eyes. She wanted brown eyes, after all. Green eyes she probably could have achieved through some minor adjustments, but brown was a big enough change that new eyes were necessary. Then sharper eyebrows, located a little bit lower on the brow…
Staring back at her was the face of a much sharper, more masculine male. Not bad, Kate Tremblay, not bad at all.
She mashed down his hair and slapped on some more clay. She imagined luxurious black waves as she did so, and when she refocused on the actuality, she was fairly pleased with her results. Thick, wavy without being curly, and certainly a dark black. Really, she should do this for a living.
Now came the hard part. She lifted Jeremy’s knife from his chicken paillard and used the blade to cut into the back of his head. Then she stuck her fingers in and began pressing, tugging, and thumbing. A lot less pretentious, friendlier, good sense of humor—and she fixed his memories so he had never been to England. And for God’s sake, she had to fix his speech so he’d use contractions once in a while.
Much better. She indented the cavity of his head with her fingernail and scratched some words.
Good. Now he was a Stealers fan.
She resealed his head and massaged his hair until the lines of the opening were lost. As she stepped back to admire her handiwork, his eyes—a deep chocolate brown—snapped open. Kate rushed back to her seat.
“This chicken’s great!” the new Jeremy enthused, seemingly unaware of the past fifteen minutes. “How’s your meal, Kate?”
“Oh, I’m pretty happy with what I got,” Kate replied, eyeing the muscular specimen in front of her.
“Well, I’m glad,” Jeremy told her. “I was sorta worried about this place. I don’t really like French food in general.”
“No?”
“No,” Jeremy laughed. “Nicole’s always joking that I’m such a picky—“
“Nicole?” Kate exclaimed, her blue eyes widening in horror. “Who’s Nicole?”
“My wife, of course,” Jeremy explained.
There it was, on his left ring finger. A stray bit of clay had splattered and was rapidly gaining a metallic sheen—
Kate lunged across the table and yanked off the still drying ring. “Who’s Nicole?” she asked again, quite out of breath.
“My dog, of course,” Jeremy answered mechanically. “She eats everything, and probably doesn’t understand how I can be so picky.”
“Right,” Kate leaned back into her chair and sighed in relief.
“But enough about me,” Jeremy continued, regaining some of his naturalness. “Tell me about you.”
Well, here was something the previous Jeremy hadn’t done.
“There’s not much to tell,” Kate said. “I work in customer relations at an electronics company. In my free time I enjoy playing tennis. I listen to a lot of music—I even had a band back in high school. I used to play the bass, but I’ve given that up. I still play the harmonica, though.”
Something flashed in Jeremy’s brown eyes. “The harmonica?” He cringed. Then he raised his well muscled right arm to hail Michel. “Michel,” he asked, “I’d like to order something else.”
“Oui, monsieur?”
“Some clay, please.”
Dear god, that could be so creepy if the entire idea was explored. I mean, you would have no way of knowing what your original personality was, it could so constantly change. Made to despise things--so many wrong, wrong implications of a thing like that.
ReplyDeleteBut props to you for the cool story and coming up with an idea like that. Also, I laughed out loud again. Yaaaay!