The Art of Eating In - Cathy Erway [96]
“This is the arch that makes everyone in Brooklyn feel like they’re in Paris,” I said of the Civil War memorial that was the centerpiece of the plaza. It was just beginning to glow from blue stage lights set along its sculpted face, and we were standing underneath its huge, arched ceiling. I hadn’t ever described that observation before; nor could I remember if anyone else had first made it, but the words spilled out from my consciousness as if they’d been there all along.
We also biked to the Brooklyn Museum a short few blocks away. The vast, curved stretch of front steps before the entrance was filled with people just leaving a big exhibit. The water fountains that lined the sides of the museum spouted tall shoots of water in procession that splattered to the pavement.
“So, what do you want to do now?” Nick asked.
I was out of ideas, so I went with the easiest answer. “Want to go get a drink?”
We settled down at a table in the backyard patio of a small nearby bar. Over our first drinks, Nick happened to mention the age of one of his siblings, so I casually asked him his age.
Twenty-four! My fear was confirmed. What was I doing, raiding the nursery? I mean, I was no geezer at twenty-six, but I didn’t think I’d want to be hanging out with the twenty-four-year-old version of myself anymore. I looked around, panicked for a moment. I was tempted to run back to the relative safety of the inside of the bar, which was full of mature, safe, normal-aged strangers. But instead, I managed to swallow a sip of my wheat beer, getting a taste of the bitter lemon rind that had been hanging on the rim of the glass a moment ago but had sploshed into the drink when I picked it up with a jerk, and to listen to the rest of whatever the hell he was saying.
He had a five-year-old sister?! His parents, God bless their sprightliness, were in their late forties?? I finished my beer in one glug.
“Do you want another drink?” I interrupted. We both looked at his glass, which was just less than halfway full.
“Um, no—well, okay, sure,” he said.
I went inside to the safety of the bar. I ordered another round of drinks from the bartender, silently cursing over the fact that he didn’t offer to pay for them—the immaturity! When the bartender handed me my change, she flashed a quick smile. With thick dread-locks and smart-looking glasses, she had a beautiful smile. She also looked exceptionally bored that night. She turned to gaze glumly at the customers seated around the bar, waiting for someone to need her service.
As I walked back outside with our drinks, I suddenly felt very lucky to be where I was right then. It was unusually warm that spring night, and I was celebrating that by having drinks on a patio and having a conversation with someone who was completely new to me. What did it matter if he was two years younger? Maybe I was the one who was being immature about this age difference.
We ended up staying at the same bar until well after midnight, talking, drinking, and at one point breaking out the Trivial Pursuit game that was stashed on a dusty shelf. Starved, we feasted around eleven o’clock on some flatbread with herbs I had baked that morning and took to the park with me earlier in the day, wrapped in foil. I’d crunched down on an apple a little while before that and noticed Nick watching enviously as I did. Luckily, I had plenty of the herbed bread with me in my bag to share. So this was not eating out in New York while dating, I thought. Not a very glamorous example, I had to admit.
“What else do you have in that cavernous bag of yours?” Nick asked.
I pulled out a blueberry cereal bar: dessert.
Outside, as we were unlocking our bikes to leave, I strapped on my helmet and heavy bike lock.
“Well, it was nice hanging out,” I said.
He paused as if I were going to say more.
“It was nice hanging out,