I stared at the clock on my computer screen as it ticked away each laborious minute of the year-long day I was having. With the interview I had just completed still fresh in my head, I was desperately seeking the inspiration to put the information on paper, though failing miserably.
"Finally!" I sighed as the clock marked noon. I suppose I could have left earlier or later, but I found it poor form to take lunch any other time, unless my schedule required it. Thus, whenever possible, noon was the break I allowed myself.
That said, I grabbed my purse and jacket and ducked out the office door, hoping that someone would not accost me with a "hot story," as the recent interview was enough to circle around in my head. The elevator was slow in its twenty-two-floor descent, but I managed to escape without being approached.
My blue Nissan roared to life and I made the short trip to my favorite restaurant, Los Dos Gatos. The food was fabulous, if not strangely housed. It always reminded me of a renovated gas station that had been convincingly transformed – all but the restrooms, which were only accessible from the outside of the building.
A waitress, who spoke little English but knew my name, seated me immediately at "my" table. I proceeded to order my usual: a number sixteen combo lunch with a diet coke. I enjoyed the organized predictability that I encountered while at Los Dos Gatos, thus my reason for returning so frequently. I was, therefore, rightfully amazed at what happened next.
I took out my notepad and begin to jot down all useful information from my last interview while it was still fresh in my mind. As I scribbled furiously on my notepad, an uncommonly handsome man with dark, cropped hair, a creamy olive complexion, and deep brown eyes entered the restaurant. Discarding my note taking, my eyes focused in upon this good-looking man who commanded my attention. Through whatever kind act of fate, the waitress, Christina, seated him at the table next to mine. I watched this intriguing man as he slowly removed his full-length black wool dress coat from his thick, muscular frame in one fluid motion, draping it over the adjacent chair before sitting down. He picked up the menu and smoothed his tie over his crisp, light blue dress shirt.
I glanced down at my notes, pretending not to stare at him. After a few moments of half-hearted note taking, I glanced toward the handsome stranger. He met my eyes immediately and held them, smiling. I smiled back, unable to return my eyes to my notes.
Again he smiled, speaking, "How are you today, Veronica?"
I paused, confused. "I'm doing well, thanks. But... do I, um.... know you from somewhere? Honestly, you seem like someone I would remember."
"No... your name is on your press pass."
I looked down at my pass hanging from my neck, smiling. The now obviously-amused, handsome man grinned.
I laughed at myself, replying, "I – clearly – forget that I'm wearing it, sometimes. Just had an interview."
He nodded in acknowledgement and added, "I'm Chris, by the way."
"It's nice to meet you, Chris." I attempted to keep my answers short, hoping he would volunteer the right information, instead of my asking the wrong questions.
"So, clearly you work in media. Where and what, more specifically?"
"I work at Enterprise Media... for the local paper, more specifically. I write and edit features for them."
"Fantastic. That must be exciting."
"Usually... but today has been a slow news day."
"Really... a slow news day in Chicago? Too bad... but, if you were busier, you probably wouldn't be here."
"True, and that would be unfortunate."
"So, do you have any questions for me, Veronica?"
I paused, momentarily, both internally chuckling at the bad pick-up line, and mentally assessing what I would first ask this entrancing man. Figuring it was only fair to ascertain the same information he had of me, I asked, "Well, what do you do for a living?"
"I'm an oncologist."
"Oh?" I asked, dumbly. "Where do you work?" I knew he was doing wonders for my health, already.
"Wellington North. They have an amazing oncology department."
"Maybe it's not such a slow news day, after all."
"Maybe not. Well, would you like to know anything else... off the record?"
"Hmm... that sounds inviting," I mused, still chuckling at his amazing ability to use corny pick-up lines successfully. "What are the terms of this offer? Or rather... interrogation?" I asked with a smile, playing along.
"Anything is fair game, but I don't promise a reply."
"Sounds reasonable." I paused. "Okay... how do you feel about the war?"
"I don't agree with it, but I don't have enough time or influence to change things."
"Fair enough. Religion?"
"Sure. Catholic – born and raised. I don't attend regularly."
"Few who are raised Catholic do attend regularly. I survived Catholicism." I imitated his choppy sentence structure, hoping to accomplish more. How interesting he was!
"Anything else?" he inquired with one eyebrow raised quizzically.
"Ever been arrested?" I asked with a wry grin.
Without missing a beat, he replied, his voice thick with sarcasm, "Not since I served my five years for aggravated assault." I liked his style.
"Well, that's a good start," I said with a smile. "Okay, I have another question."
"Shoot."
"Would you like to join me?" I asked tentatively.
"Ah... the one question I thought the beautiful reporter would never ask!"
I smiled as he gathered his coat and moved to my little booth. I watched the care with which he handled the garment and wondered if he handled his women the same way. Smiling even more broadly at that thought, I bit my tongue as he sat down quietly.
Just as Chris made a final adjustment in his seat, a second waitress approached my table with two baskets of chips and two flasks of salsa, looking relatively confused. I attempted to explain, in Spanish, that he would be sitting with me. The waitress looked at me with a steadily deepening look of confusion, and I realized that I may have actually told her he would be "feeling" with me, as the verbs were similar in Spanish. I hoped he would be doing both.
Thinking about our conversation thus far, an errant thought crossed my mind. "Wait a minute... Wellington North? What brings you here, then, for lunch? You're at least forty-five minutes away from your office. I mean, the food here is good, but I don't think there's a quesadilla in the world I'd drive forty-five minutes for!" I paused, then quickly added, "Mind you, I'm not complaining. If this is just a happy coincidence, then so be it... I'm not one to argue with such good fortune."
He blushed noticeably and responded, "Actually, there's a small medical conference being held at the Rowen Convention Center, today. '
They
' decided I should attend." He paused and added, "I'm glad they did."
"Indeed," I replied. "So, have you ordered, yet?"
"Yes... I think I ordered a combination plate... number fourteen? Some combination of things that I'm sure cause both hemorrhaging and obesity but taste delicious."
I smiled and replied, "The number fourteen is a chile relleno with rice and beans, I believe." It was my turn to blush, "Not that I come here often, or anything...."
"Okay, I'm impressed."
"You shouldn't be... it's just depressing to cook for just myself every night, so I'm here at least three times a week for either lunch or dinner. Plus, a photographic memory doesn't exactly slow me down in that regard...."
"Ah... I thought I heard the waitress call you by your name. And, for the record, a photographic memory is considered cheating."
"Pathetic, isn't it?"
"Well... yes and no. The food is cheap and apparently pretty good, and it beats eating by yourself. My weakness is Chinese food... or, rather, what we call a Chinese restaurant. I live for egg rolls and General Tso's Chicken from this place down the street from me. I have no one to cook for, either, so they know me there by name."
"Respectable."
"Pathetic."
"Sometimes the same thing."
