Roy Marmelstein

She's sitting down, smoking, at the best restaurant I can afford. The red dress she's wearing is probably worth everything I've ever earned. Why is the menu in French? I look at her, she doesn't care. She doesn't care about me or the fact that the menu is in an archaic foreign tongue. In fact, she doesn't even glimpse at the menu before she orders, it's as if it has no relevance. It's just advice. It's not about what the chef will do but about what he CAN do, and in this sort of place the chef is as powerful as god and satan put together. She doesn't say much, she's different to how she was last time. Mind you, last time I saw her she was drunk out of her mind. She's not entertaining me enough so I look around at the other couples. Boring rich kids, no flair. The waiter or matredeee or whatever they call them comes up to us with an open bottle of wine. He tilts it into my glass and it just rides through, edging round and colouring the crystal a bloody purple. I don't care about her. I don't need her. He's looking at me. I'm not enjoying this. I pick up the glass of fine wine, snort in the aroma and down it into my gurgling throat. I slam it onto the table and look at him. She's embarassed, the first sign of life all evening, she should thank me. He fills my glass again and I down that too. Heads turn at us. I struggle up and murmur to the waiter, "I think this on'es corked". I pick my coat from the chair, swing it over my shoulder, the painful one, and stream out into the open neon streets. Neither she nor the waiter say anything. I never liked Tuesdays.