Dinner Party

Laura taps her fingers distractedly on the table and sneaks a glance at her watch. She picks up her fork and puts it back down again. Her mouth-watering plate of pasta has by now solidified into an unappetizing blob. She picks a bread roll and starts tearing it into tiny bits. She has to tell him. She was planning on telling him tonight but then Carrie called and she sounded so miserable that somehow Laura found herself inviting her along. And now, look at the three of them, sitting there in awkward silence, making strained conversation on topics none of them care much about. Killing time and, to Laura’s annoyance, killing Laura’s resolve.

Maybe I can just write it all out in a letter, she thinks in sudden inspiration. But she and Mark have never been a letter writing couple. To start now would be fake and somehow dishonest. Oh why, why did Carrie have to come along tonight?

~*~*~*~*~

Mark stabs his chicken, trying to avoid looking at his almost full plate. Somewhere between getting to the restaurant and seeing Carrie rush to their table, a halo of copper corkscrew curls framing her face, he lost his appetite. The plate of Chicken Saltimbocca is marooned before him, the formerly succulent meat congealing in a cooling puddle as his stomach gives another lurch.

Why didn’t Carrie come before he ordered dinner? The guilt of eating “flesh”, as she calls it, in front of her is making him irritable and hungry with no desire to keep eating. Why didn’t she come on time for once? He could have ordered a salad and… He feels his neck flush a dull red as he throws a nervous glance at Laura but she’s not watching him. She doesn’t know. Of course she doesn’t know.

~*~*~*~*~

Carrie picks delicately at her beet and arugula salad. A piece of gorgonzola cheese slips out of fork’s reach and the tines skid on a patch of oil, dislodging a leaf onto the crisp white tablecloth. She picks it up without really looking, her eyes glazed with disappointment. She was so hoping for a long chat with Laura, how stupid of her not to have listened when Laura suggested dinner together. She must have mentioned that Mark would be there. She must have. Lately she could never seem to get Laura on her own. She was busy with work or at the gym or planning outings with Mark. Carrie bites her lip, trying to stop the hot pressure behind her eyelids from resolving itself in a flood down her flushed cheeks.

She hates feeling so weak and needy, but damn it, Laura was her friend well before she even met Mark. Carrie wills the tears back and grits her teeth. Is there a way to suggest dessert but make it clear that Mark isn’t invited? She has to talk to Laura, she has to tell her what she’s decided, what she’s finally come to realize. She has to…

~*~*~*~*~

“May I take this for you, sir?” Mira is already reaching past the man’s arm to remove the barely touched food. This does not look like a successful meal and she sighs. She can already see the look of disgust and annoyance on Alberto’s face when she'll bring the plates back. Alberto hates when food makes its way back into his pristine kitchen. He always takes it as a personal affront and then takes his anger out on the hapless servers. Maybe I can sneak it past the sous chef, she thinks in sudden inspiration. Get Pietro to dump it before Alberto goes ballistic that one of his personal favorites was mangled and left to dry almost whole. Mira sighs and bites her lip. I don’t need this tonight and I bet the tips will be lousy.

“Would anyone care for some dessert?” she hazards, fairly certain of the answer but still hoping she can salvage Alberto’s mood and her tips by suggesting the chocolate soufflé.

“No,” the man is abrupt, pushing his chair back from the table and fishing in his pocket as if to pay. Mira’s face is impassive, her hand already reaching into the pocket of her black apron for the check. Definitely a lousy tip, the guy looks pissed off.

“Actually,” the red haired woman shakes back her curls and dimples up at Mira, giving her a sweetly shy smile, “Actually, I’d love some dessert.”

The other woman looks up in surprise, her fingers stilling for a moment as her eyes travel between her dining companions and up to Mira’s face. She looks lost, as if unsure of why she’s still sitting at the table.

Mira halts, glancing from one diner to another. The man is already on his feet but he’s not looking at either of the women. His face has a closed off look that Mira has long learned to recognize as that of someone who has already left the restaurant in mind if not in body.

“I’ll give you a minute?” Mira allows the end of the sentence to trail off just enough to spur a response.

“No, it’s all right,” the dark-haired woman speaks, her voice growing more assured with each word now that a decision has been reached.

She turns to address the man, “Mark, you go on home. Take the car,” she hands him the keys, pressing them into his hand when he looks like he’s about to sit back down.

“Go on, you said you had some work you wanted to catch up on. Carrie can give me a ride home later.” She looks at her friend whose face lights up as she nods.

“Just go.” Her tone is impassive and she is not looking at the man anymore. Instead, she turns to Mira and gives her a dazzling smile.

“How is your chocolate soufflé?”