It was very late to be eating a huge slice of lasagna at Odessa Café. It’s Odessa like Russia, not Texas, though neither of those seems to be especially well-known for baked pasta dishes. And it’s dark in here, but his eyes are darker, and I love his eyebrows. He’s drunk, but on my end hungry and exhausted are battling for dominance, though it appears hungry has taken the lead, and the lasagna is disappearing.
Do you know he has perfect hands? His fingers are long and beautiful, and I think they could probably paint a portrait or play a piano or fold origami cranes or build houses out of cards, but for now they’re just reaching out to me across the table. And I love his fingers, but also his cheekbones and his ears and the way his legs are taking over my under-the-table space.
We paid with a credit card. And I thought he forgot about the part you have to sign when he stood up. But he wasn’t leaving. He came around the booth, and sat down beside me, right up close, because he says he likes it better here.