Bare Bones

This is a very short story, just a blip in my mind. If you haven't read it, the recent, longer one is below.

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"I don't want to see you anymore."

I quickly scanned the table for the steak knife, suspecting that someone had accidentally stuck it in my chest and was currently swirling it around my insides. But it was still there, sitting next to my half-eaten salmon. It was only offered as grilled on my menu, but they broiled it for me. And it was offered with mashed potatoes and string beans, but I got it with french fries and broccoli. But the broccoli was only offered sauteed, so I asked them to steam it, which they did. And the lemon wine sauce was on the side too. Of course. Always on the side.

"You're just...too much for me."

We had been dating for a few months. We met at an Oscar party, which is pretty much a Superbowl party for homosexuals. Except instead of heros and beer we have asparagus tips and white wine. Steamed asparagus tips, of course.

"It shouldn't be this hard."

I absentmindedly unfolded my napkin, forgetting that I had stuffed some fish bones into it. The bones fell across the table, mixing in with my food. I tried to nonchalantly sweep them back into the napkin, but the napkin was covered with ketchup which then stuck to my hands. In fact, my entire plate was covered with ketchup. Pointless, really, to force the kitchen to make me a special dinner when I just covered everything in ketchup. Sauteed and steamed broccoli both taste the same, smothered in ketchup. I read somewhere that ketchup is the most popular condiment because it contains all seven types of flavor, including the elusive umame. Some of us just like to have it all.

"I don't know, maybe it's me."

I nodded in agreement, not really agreeing. As far as I could tell, the common denominator in all my relationships was me, not him.

"My mother was very hard on me."

By this point, my stomach was starting to churn, and I felt vaguely like I was about to vomit. Not quite enough to make me excuse myself from the table, especially since he seemed to be in the middle of an important point. There was something he needed to get off of his chest, and I owed it to him to sit it out, and nod at the right moments, so he wouldn't feel so alone.

He spent several minutes talking about his mother, and how she handed him off to the nanny whenever he would cry. That didn't sound so horrible to me. Mary Poppins was a nanny, and she made cough syrup taste like candy and sang her kids to sleep. My mother never sang me to sleep. She didn't care much for music. She liked one song by Peter, Paul, and Mary, and that was it.

"And my father was never around."

He'd already told me all about his father, on our last date. He spent hours describing the pain of having an absentee father. Mostly I nodded, but I asked a few questions too, so he'd know I was interested. Later that night, while he was falling asleep, I told him how my own absentee father had left pornography behind in the basement after he moved out, which I considered a misguided attempt at sexual education.

"Oh, your parents were divorced too?"

I nodded, and he went back to sleep.

"My last boyfriend was abusive."

That wasn't a surprise. I had met his last boyfriend at a party once. We didn't talk much, but he just looked angry. I wondered whether he became an angry person because he looked angry, or whether he looked like an angry person because he was one.

"No one understands me."

He started crying. I gave him a tissue from my pocket to wipe his eyes. It was a used tissue, but I had only used it to spit out my tic-tac, so it was like new. It smelled like mint. I thought that would make him happy. He liked mint. He liked mint, and Liza Minnelli, and skyscrapers. His birthday was coming up soon, and I had already bought him his gift, a rare recording of Liza at Carnegie Hall. I'd give it to him anyway. It would make him happy. Like the mint tissue.

"Everyone wants me to be something I'm not."

Yes, I would definitely give him that Liza recording. I liked Liza too, but he liked her more.

"I don't know who I am."

My body relaxed a bit, or perhaps I had become accustomed to the pain. It didn't take too long anymore. He signaled for the waiter to bring the check. There was still half a piece of salmon on my plate, but it was covered in ketchup, so he probably couldn't see it, and I wasn't hungry anyway.

"And you seem kind of, well, like, vulnerable. I need someone strong."

He coughed slightly, and I worried for a moment he might pull some of his stitches. A few weeks before he had been in the hospital with appendicitis. He had been admitted on Friday night, but didn't call me until Saturday.

"Why didn't you call me last night," I asked him, already e-mailing my friends to cancel our plans for that night. We had tickets to The Lion King. The music is slightly cheesy, but you can't go wrong with dancing puppets, especially when those puppets are tall enough to crush a Winnebago.

"Because I knew you'd come last night, and I didn't want to see anyone last night" he replied, in between short, jagged breaths. Within twenty minutes I was standing outside the hospital, but he wouldn't let me come up. His family was visiting, and they didn't know about me, or about him, or about us. So I wandered around the city for four hours and bought him various items that I thought might make him feel better. He didn't know who he was, but I did.

"I need to focus on me right now."

The waiter brought the check. I reached for it, as usual. I made a lot more money than he did, it was only fair that I pay. Plus, we were at my favorite restaurant, which he didn't particularly care for, but agreed to because we had gone to his favorite restaurant the last four times. I didn't blame him for that either. The restaurant wasn't particularly good, but it was one of the few that had shoe-string french fries. My father made shoe-string french fries, before he left, while my mother played Peter, Paul, and Mary on the stereo.

"And I've kind of been seeing someone else."

The waiter started clearing the plates, giving me a funny look while he delicately placed the ketchup-soaked napkin on my plate. We talked a bit about the new guy. It felt good to ask him questions again, even about that. They had met at a bowling party. The attendant had switched their shoes. Prada, size 11, Gucci, size 10.5. Hilarity ensued. They hadn't been out yet, but he was optimistic. I was too. He sounded like a really nice guy.

"You know, I feel better," he said, smiling. I smiled back, because that's what I do.

He got up from the table, and I touched his hand lightly. He immediately pulled his hand away. He was clearly uncomfortable enough, without my neediness getting between him and the front door.

"I'm glad," I replied. He'd feel even better next week, when I gave him the Liza recording. He could listen to it with his new boyfriend. That's two people I could make happy, with just one gift. Really, a net positive.

I watched him get in his car through the restaurant window. He offered to wait for me, but he didn't really want to, so I didn't want him to. The waiter had missed a few stray bones. I gathered them up and deposited them in my water glass.

Another three months. Another ketchup-stained napkin. Another steak knife in my chest. But all in all, not a bad evening, as far as these things go.

I paid the check, wiped the ketchup off of my cheeks, and left.