Spoons
By Mia Germain
He waddles across the crawling dining room to the too-small table, his body threatening to conquer the overly priced modern plastic-chic chair. I’m picking at what’s left of my manicure, with my head down low, so I don’t see him before I can hear his heavy bulldog-breathing. The woman at his side could catch anyone’s eye, if the diamonds in her ears weren’t enough to blind you, the one on her left ring finger would knock you out. She was an average-looking woman, really, with nice clothes and heavy makeup, the kind that crinkled like wrapping paper with every forced smile. I sat there, counting each breath from my chapped lips, wishing I hadn’t forgotten my lip balm. Burt’s Bees, I swear by the stuff. I stop looking at my gnarled nails to pick at the dry creases, frosted with white flakes, and she gives me the look.
He had finally settled himself into his seat, taking up an amount of space that should have been split among three people, when I noticed that her attention had fleeted. If she had ever had a real date, the poor guy probably would have left in a fury before caviar. Anyways, she’s sitting there with that bright red smile smeared on her face, but her eyes are darting around all over the place. Chandeliers, businessman at the next table, my nubby nails, the empty wine bottle, his dirty tie. She didn’t even notice how uncomfortable it was, but you could feel the energy in the room change, frequency up to hyper-mode. My grip goes for the clutch and my teeth take it up to a higher gear, leaving their mark yet again on my nubby nails. He even attempts to have a conversation, words sputtering out of his clumsy lips, his eyes huge behind those thick black glasses. You could tell he knew it was all for the money by the way he didn’t even try to dress himself, but he never forgot to lay the credit card out on the kitchen counter every weekend. When he was young he was probably the guy everybody thought would make it, he was always just one click off from normal. She was his redemption, the dead wife was his true love, but she’d always been a bit of an eye-sore. This younger, more hi-tech model was exactly what he needed to get invited to restaurants like this. The waiters are staring as she uncrosses and recrosses her fishnet-clad legs, but it’s the man across the table that slips his gnarled fingers up her thigh in excitement. Sweat builds up on his brow, and his breathing gets tight, this is exactly what he’d worked so hard for. This kind of love was cheap, as cheap as it gets when you’re buying it with your black card.
The restaurant had this super modern décor—almost Bauhaus, but slightly wrong—that made you feel like you shouldn’t touch anything or it might shatter into a million fiberglass pieces. I can’t be certain, but I have a pretty sure feeling that the guy that designed this place has never actually eaten here. All of the plates were “expressive” too. The salad bowl came first. The waiter plopped it down in front of me like he knew it was inedible, and I could feel my eyes bulge out of my head in hopes of magnifying the miniature amount of leafy green. But it was the bowl that was wrong, not the food. It had five sides, but it wasn’t a regular old pentagon, more like a star that hit earth a little too hard. If the silverware wasn’t even weirder I would have thought the kitchen had made a mistake and given me the outcast plate. It was beyond modern—it was post-modern, fictional reality. Mumbo jumbo.
My nubby fingertips find their way over to the fork, scratching against the starch-white tablecloth. Smooth metal cools my touch as I slip the handle into my grip. Before I get the chance to stab into my mixed greens she interrupts my moment of peace. Her scream really pierces your eardrums; it’s not overly loud like a man or high-pitched like a child, but it definitely strikes a chord ripping your attention away from whatever it is you were doing. Her eyes are open wide enough to eat a New York steak, I don’t know why she’s even bothering with the fork. But it’s the way she stares at it that’s truly impressive, concentration fixed, the rest of the room shut out: a truly magical moment, that is if shiny metal silverware is what gets you off. But it didn’t last long. She must have realized that her husband and I were both staring.
“Beautiful. These are truly beautiful,” she declares to the table, carefully balancing the fork on her porcelain hand.
Ridiculous. You are truly ridiculous, I thought to myself as the crunch, crunch of lettuce drowned out the man’s damp wheezing from across the table. It’s pretty obvious that he can barely control his excitement. That was my biggest problem with him, I think, he could never hide how horny he was, the dirty old man.
He really wasn’t to blame though, when you’re his age and your wife can have any twenty-year-old model wrapped around her finger, there’s always something to get excited about. She was just so easy to please too; he never had to deal with communication problems, opinions, or thoughts at all, really. Like I said, he really isn’t to blame, if he has the money to keep her happy that’s enough to make up for whatever it is she might have found. He’s got one foot in the grave and the other between the legs of a woman less than half his age, some would even say he deserves a pat on the back. Like I said, he really wasn’t to blame.
We had finished our miniature “salads” and the waiters were hovering around like bees to take the dirty leftovers. Polite as can be, their little penguin arms stand out against the white tablecloth and then grab whatever edge of the odd-shaped plate they can get their hands on. She nods, they nod, and the plates float away.
This is where the story gets scary, some whom I’ve told have disagreed, but it sends a chill down my spine every time I remember it. There’s a lull in the evening as we each stare at each other from behind our blue eyes, not talking, and thinking over our own private thoughts, as complex or simple as they may be. With nothing else to entertain myself I’m back to picking at my lips, not sure if I’ll get scolded for rummaging through my pockets for my lip balm again. I’m picking with my mini lobster claw fingernails and she’s tap tap tapping her pointed toes. It seriously feels like nothing could pass the time. The whole restaurant is breathing molasses when the penguin waiters finally trickle back in through the crowd of suits and up-do’s. It’s soup time, garden lentil. You can track their eyes watching the liquid sway from one edge of the bowls to the other with each step. Odd shapes, once again. They drop in front of our place settings, followed up by a spoon.
Her eyes glimmer and you can see her face light up even under the caked-on complexion-corrector. Every millimeter that the cold shiny metal spoon slides out from the waiter’s white-napkin sleeve her temperature soars and her foot taps quicker. The more she stares at it the more its odd shape is exaggerated. Perfectly resembling a tongue, the curved end is elongated and thinner than your average spoon, designed for your soup-consuming pleasure. I can hear the gears turning behind her doll-face, and I can feel it all making sense to her man. This is the way things fall into place in this family. Animalistic instincts for “want” take over.
“Oh! These spoons are just darling! Oh, daughter, look how cute they are!” the words seep through her red lips with that same shrill voice as before. She slowly turns her head to her right as her eyelashes flutter at an alarming pace. I can tell what’s coming and my nails are back between my teeth. There’s nothing more disgusting than the way he shrugs when she makes another demand on his shriveling, yet swollen body.
“Dear, there’s nothing I’ve ever wanted more! I can’t possibly leave the restaurant without them,” she’s oozing at the wrinkles, her attempt-at-charm perfume clogging up the air at the table. He chokes through the dense air, but before he can get the chance to open his pouty lips, she takes control. With a flick of her finger and another batting of her nylon lashes, penguin number one slides over to her side.
“Excuse me, but could you please bring me all of your spoons? I assume you have them in all sizes. Soupspoons, dessertspoons, saltspoons. Yes, please bring them all.”
He’s getting a bit misty, and now my foot is tapping. My own spoon like a gun in my hand: heavy and hot. The frequency rising, and her pulse is racing, fingers itching at the table cloth for her spoon-fix. She needs the spoons, she wants the spoons, and how could she ever live without the spoons? He knew quite well that she didn’t need these spoons. He thinks this is beyond materialistic desires, this is a conspiracy, and he wont let her embarrass him here, not this restaurant, her job is to raise his social standing, not squash it.
“Pookey-poo, get me the spoons, pretty please?”
“No, I will not buy you those spoons.”
“Of course silly, now they are all on the table, just slip them into your pocket, easy as pie dear. You like pie.”
His glassy eyes roll around glancing over her perfect form as his wrinkled hands slide back from the table and drop to his lap. Chin hung low, he cant help but look up as she twirls her finger through her curly hair, and the glittering rock on her ring finger perfectly catching the light and throwing the glamour right back at him. She knows exactly what she’s doing the instant doubt creeps over his face and she slips her fishnet foot out of her seven inch Louis Vouitton pumps and up his grey pant leg along the side of his varicose-marbled calf.
This was more than another expense he would have to explain to his twenty-something accountant, this was beyond price and necessity. My foot has stopped tapping and my hands have resided back into my lap. The intensity drops because the decision has been made. Order set in stone against his shriveled brain’s grey matter, but the action not taken just yet. This is not a lull, this is the absence of a game. Its already been won.
