Today I was wearing a white button-up shirt with a blue checkered pattern on it. I had on a tie featuring a different geometric design and different basic color. I also wore a tan sweater vest. With intentionally mussed hair, I looked pretty good. I was dressed for a sad day in November.
The memorial service for Johnny was nice, and I even shed a couple tears when Vic's sister gave a somewhat funny, very touching speech about how much her silent, stubborn, frequently ill yet good-hearted and kind stepfather meant to her. Her speech was nice.
The time I got to spend with Vic and her ex-husband, who told me that he liked my tie and told me that it was nice to see me, was actually warm. I felt good being in their company. He sat with her during the service and held her hand. He drove her to the library to pick up some books when the service ended. (She told me she didn't know what she was in the mood to read but that she had to read something. I understood that.)
Anyway, so I headed to work after the service, and I kept the clothes I was wearing to the service on through lunch at Max Lager's and throughout my shift, though I admit I removed the tie then.
People commented to me on how nice I looked.
"Hot date?" my manager Linda asked me.
"Funeral," I said.
She paused, then frowned and said, "Oh."
At lunch, I was sitting on the patio, looking out at the mall. The overhead speakers began playing k.d. lang's "Consequences of Falling," which is the song title I borrowed for my book on mall culture and choices regarding our collective individuality. It felt like a moment I was supposed to experience.
One family posed for a photo by the giant Christmas tree in the mall courtyard. They were all wearing shorts and T-shirts. It was 80 degrees outside, and it's a week before Thanksgiving. I was wearing the sort of outfit I'd like to wear in November, but Georgia in November has Bizarro-world weather.
During lunch, Nick the cute waiter, who gave me the wrong phone number to contact him a couple months ago, smiled when he saw me and asked me how I was doing. I was confused by this.
He smiled again, "I like your tie."
I was trying to read the look on his face. It was the look of a friend, someone whom I'd hug.
"What?" he asked me.
"Um," I muttered.
"What's wrong?" Nick asked, smiling still.
"You gave me the wrong phone number," I said plainly. "I called it this week, and I couldn't decide if you'd given me the wrong one on purpose."
While I was explaining this, he was quickly looking at his phone, then writing a new one on his order pad. (This was at the beginning of his shift in his restaurant, but I couldn't figure out why he'd be so nice to me if he gave me the wrong number on purpose. So I asked him about it. That makes sense, right?)
He said something about a 9 number, then saying he used to have a number similar to his phone number. And now he inverts the digits. Or something like that.
He's had my number saved in his phone since before he gave me the wrong number accidentally. He hasn't called it. There's a disconnect. It's unintentional and on purpose. We're busy. But neither of us is making an effort. I will call him. Eventually.
So I left his restaurant. And he went to work. And I went to work. And I don't know.
The weather fit my mixed emotions about my outfit, the reasons why I was wearing it, the fact that I liked the compliments I got and that I was dressed up in front of Nick the cute waiter. It all jumbled in my head. I didn't know if I was just having a typical adult life or if I was supposed to feel guilty about something.
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