Tonight I went to an old haunt for dinner. Along the river just across the bridge in New Jersey, there’s a small Italian restaurant, Revere.
It’s tucked in next to an auto repair shop and just around the corner from some condos where an ex-girlfriend used to live. It was the girlfriend who turned me on to the place. We sometimes sat outside at a cafe table, but usually sat inside in the dimly lit bar section of the restaurant. They have an amazing bolognese – I get it every time I’m there. For a while, she was “the one who got away.” A beautiful, smart, and ambitious redhead. A day after I broke up with her, I immediately regretted it. She said she fell for me fast. She wouldn’t take me back. It took me nearly a year to get over her. One night after eating at Revere I stopped by her place, kinda late (around 8pm) and unannounced. I wanted to apologize. I went to tell her that I should have been better to her. She didn’t answer. Thor, her awesome lab barked a lot. I left. She texted me later, told me not to stop by again. Said I was lucky her fiance wasn’t there. It was only a few months after we had broken up… I wouldn’t have guessed her to be engaged so quickly. I saw her once or twice at the restaurant since then. We didn’t say hi or acknowledge each other. She’s married now. I am not….
For the past year I’ve avoided going to Revere. I was dating someone (my fiancee), and I didn’t want us to run in to the ex-girlfriend. Not because I still had feelings – far from it. My fiancee, B, was the one who made me forget about anyone and everyone else…. I just didn’t want the potential awkwardness. She left me about 5 months ago. I’m still crazy about her – but that will be the subject of numerous other posts. About a month or two ago I started going back to Revere as part of rediscovering who I was before. When all else fails, eat good food. mmmmmm….. bolognese.
There are a few regulars that hang out at Revere. There’s the guy with the long gray hair in the NASA cap. He and who I assume is his wife, always have the corner table. There’s another guy and his wife of many years who always sit across the bar from where I usually sit. There’s an older woman who I talked to once. She used to teach and also owned a hardware store. I sometimes hear her telling other people the same complaints and stories she told me. Watching her, I don’t want to grow old and be a complainer at my regular bar. Outside of this crew and a few others, it’s a place where the lonely congregate… often, an empty bar stool between them. They (who am I kidding… we) sit quietly. We look at our phones. We drink our drinks.
The conversations I’ve had with the strangers sitting next to me (usually women) are exercises in sharing. Sorrows, advice, stories. I inevitably talk of my fiancee, and I’m reminded of a lyric from a Morphine song “In Spite of Me” – “Last night I told a stranger all about you…..” I’ve told several strangers about her. I thought I might write a story about a man who told the story of his lost love every night to a different stranger at a bar. In the story, this went on for years. There was no happy ending, no conflict, just a constant retelling of happiness lost, a constant reaffirmation that he’ll find his way, always the same look from the stranger as he spoke in superlatives about the most amazing woman in the world, as if nobody had ever lost someone so special.
About three weeks ago I met a woman at the bar. We didn’t talk at first, or maybe we did, I can’t remember. I know she was on the phone. It sounded like she was talking to a lover. It sounded like she was having an affair. Would they meet tonight? She’ll be in town all day tomorrow too. She had to get home, but was taking her time doing it. She needed at least one more drink before going home. This made me laugh a little. My fiancee wanted space – there were probably nights she would have liked to take her time coming home. When the woman hung up the phone, she paused a minute then turned and said, “I don’t know what you heard. You must think I’m awful.” I looked at her and replied, “I didn’t hear much, and it’s not my place to judge.” Another 30 seconds passed and I added, “I did hear the part about not being in a hurry to get home – that made me chuckle.” She seemed ashamed and asked, “Isn’t that a terrible thing to say?” I gave a slight shrug, turned toward her and said, “I think everybody needs some time and space, there’s nothing so bad in that.” Her lip quivered a bit and I could see her eyes tear up. “Thank you.” she said. “Those are exactly the words I needed to hear.” She and I talked about the meaning of home – the sanctuary it should be, the promise it could be. She clearly did not have one that was the ideal. I’ve been without one ever since B left. We talked about why relationships are difficult and how life can be so much more complicated than it really should be. As she left, she touched my shoulder. “You’re gonna be more than fine. You’ll do alright.”
Tonight, Deborah sat next to me. She is not the woman from a few weeks ago. She is someone I’ve seen at Revere before. She a fiery 75-year-old redhead. Something from conversations I’ve overheard makes me think she used to work in porn or as a stripper or something that was seductive. There’s a guy that hangs around and hits on her from time to time – it’s the way he says “that thing you used to do” that makes me think she was some kind of seductress. Deborah cares deeply about animals. She has a son my age. She used to work in the travel industry and saw lots of different places. She almost always orders the vodka rigatoni, but tonight she got eggplant parmigiana and insisted I try a bite. She talked about the 70s and all the pot she smoked. She talked about growing up in the area and how the restaurant was right along the river until the floods. She talked about losing her recent lover – he left without explanation. We both talked about the grief of that type of loss. How it hits you when your washing dishes or buying groceries. These are the things you used to enjoy doing with someone else. She too heard the story of my ex…. last night I told a stranger all about you. Deborah made sure to tell me several times that I’m young, I have a lot of adventures ahead of me. I could hear that she was sad to maybe not have so much time ahead of her. I left as a musician started playing “Nights in White Satin” – Deborah loves the Moody Blues.
As part of a couple, I tend not to be this social – I’m focused on my partner. Flying solo, I’ve learned to appreciate the comfort in confiding in strangers. I get to speak of the most beautiful woman in the land, the amazing moments we had. I get to say these things out loud, let them leave the echo chamber of my mind and heart. Strangers don’t judge, and if they do, I don’t need to give a fuck. They don’t tell me I need to move on. Like another line in the Morphine song, “They smile patiently in disbelief.” As I talk with them, I can let the sadness crack through my voice, I can allow my eyes to tear up. They seem to understand it better than the family and friends who must be sick of hearing it by now.
For now, this is what dinner for two looks like.