Rose-Colored Revelations

Kat was struggling. It had been one of those long insufferable days, the sort of day that mocks you at every turn. She sat in bed on her phone last night, not able to sleep but also knowing that her insistent scrolling was at least partly to blame for her insomnia. When she woke, her eyes still stung from the harsh digital light, not at all mitigated by her restless sleep. The last of summer was retreating as autumn quietly crept along the edges of busy lives, appearing first only in the late hours of night. Kat left the windows open and the crisp earthy air, the kind that can only be described as smelling like early fall, flooded her cheeks. The rest of her body embraced the warm slickness of the silk luxury bedding as she slid the soles of her feet back and forth. She began the day, like so many others, with a silent battle to leave her cozy nest. Today the struggle was exacerbated by a rush of unwelcoming cold as her toes curled against the icy floor. “It’s just another day,” she lied to herself. The imminent promise of hands curled around a warm ceramic mug and the caramel-infused warmth of her favorite brand of coffee engulfing her taste buds was the only thing propelling her forward into this wretched day.

Later that evening, as she glared across the table at the empty seat in that repulsive restaurant, she would concede that maybe, just today, her instinct to stay in bed had been the right one.      

From the start, there wasn’t exactly one thing Kat could point to that made the day unbearable. It was more like an incremental erosion of her sanity. She was already running late when the aggressively orange “low gas” light flashed on the dashboard, accompanied by its severe and insistent dinging. One reminder of her crippling habit of procrastination would really be sufficient here. Enough people nagged her without her car joining in on the fun.

She had worn her beautiful but completely impractical 6-inch vintage Louboutins for the occasion of today, which were now digging an excruciating blister into the back of her heel. By lunch the last layer of skin had valiantly succumbed and tiny heartbeat throbs pulsed waves of blood into her favorite shoes—creating stains that would surely taunt her for years to come. As for her injury, evidently it lacked the severity necessary to garner much pity or accommodation. Or perhaps, as with so many other things in her life, the seriousness of Kat’s pain was not to blame for the lack of empathy she so often experienced these days. Maybe it was her propensity for bringing such pain upon herself and yet somehow, never learning from it.  

A relentless barrage of offensive jackhammering and drilling from the never-ending construction next to her office window disrupted all Kat’s attempts to focus on her god-awful assignment. The coolness of that morning was like a distant dream now as she went back-and-forth, again and again, closing the window to drown out the ear-splitting metallic clanging and then opening it again to combat the insufferable heat.

Kat initially undertook the lovely task of vetting and reconciling all the partner’s Amex expenses, which had to be done monthly, as a favor to a colleague on maternity leave. She had even volunteered for the job, hoping to keep Jill from being immediately overwhelmed and quitting when she returned. Women supporting women and all of that. Of course, Jill’s maternity leave came and went and she never did return. Now apparently this task belonged to Kat indefinitely, along with nearly all of Jill’s other work. Kat wondered again, like she did daily at this point, if a replacement for her long lost co-worker would ever appear, but none ever did. And despite the obvious, it never occurred to her to ask. 

So with the symphony of jarring metal and her shoe filling with sticky blood, Kat listened attentively, with a smile even, to the partners, who were—shocker—all men, as they explained ever-so-patronizingly that the entirety of their trip to Baker’s Bay and the Michelin-starred meals actually were entirely for business-related purposes. These partners, including one who made six times what Kat made even though he had less experience, less education and seemingly no social awareness (but was also the nephew of a board member) told her “not to fret.” They understood her confusion and as always, with a wink, appreciated her seeking clarification.

Kat knew perfectly well that the auditors would feel differently come December 31^st when she handed off her reports, and in the end, it would be her doing all the legwork, working late into the wintery nights, to re-classify all of these charges. But that was a battle for a different day. Today she deserved a pass.

Sitting in her office as the clock finally neared 5:00, Kat willed the oncoming migraine to retreat as she peered at the tiny red number sitting atop her message app, as if it was stalking her, and the now several voicemails that had accrued throughout the day. She wasn’t going to bother with that, at least not right now. She knew what they will say. Unleashing that particular barrage of correspondence would require responses, which would prompt more questions and then an expectation of full-blown conversations of which she wanted no part. She pressed the lock button and stared at herself in the black screen for a second before shoving the phone deep in her bag and continuing on with her work. Even the world’s most formidable tool of diversion was starting to lose the battle of distracting her from herself.

The restaurant was close, and Kat was already running fashionably late. There was clearly no time to get gas. She essentially rolled into the parking lot using nothing but sheer willpower and downhill momentum. She figured if she showed up any later, her entrance might look like she was trying too hard. Kat had not seen Jackson in what felt like a long time but had really only been five months or so. Such was the nature of living together for so many years under the mundaneness of routine, only to have the predictable rhythm of life come to a screeching halt all at once, without warning. That one Wednesday, months ago, she had come home after stewing all day, armed with her arguments and rebuttals, only to find the place completely scrubbed clean of him, as if he had never been there at all. And then nothing. Neither reached out to the other. No closure, no swapping of belongings. No Instagram likes. Well, at least not until he texted to suggest dinner on tonight of all nights, at their restaurant.

But after making her grand entrance into Occhiali Rosa —which yes, she had thought about too much and had tried too hard—she realized it had all been for nothing because he wasn’t there. The sensation she felt then was a familiar one. The rush of energy through her shoulders. The searing anger clawing up her spine, the migraine she had held at bay roaring to the forefront. An entire days’ worth of bubbling frustration cumulating in the grand finale her body knew so well: A wide, dazzling, almost painful and completely fake smile—directed right at the hostess so she could be led to her table for two, alone.

Out of habit, Kat went to reach for her traitorous phone but stopped after remembering why it had been exiled to the darkest corner of her purse. No, she would just have to sit there. Her and her thoughts. There was so much history between her and Jackson, so much left unsaid at the end. She had waited for some sign of life from him in the weeks that followed that last blowout. The night they both unleashed all their truths, each mouthful dripping in resentment. She tore herself from the memory before the unbearable shame overtook her.

At this point, Jackson was a half-hour late and there was no sign of him. She gave in and called but it went straight to voicemail. The waitress came over again, not even hiding her annoyance. “Still waiting?” This cannot be how she spent today. Kat looked up at the young, judgmental brunette looming over her, gave her best winning smile and said, “No, I guess I will have a glass of the Barolo and the Spaghetti Carbonara.” The waitress rolled her eyes and sauntered away.

Jackson had brought Kat to Occhiali Rosa on their first date years ago. The memory of her first experience here exists as a tangle of nerves and excitement—a hint of a smile, a too late anxiety about wine-tinted teeth, an overlooked twinge of worry when he accepted her credit card and handed it over to the waitress along with the bill. “I’ve got the next one,” he said smoothly with that heart-melting grin Kat came to know all too well. So excited at the insinuation of a second date, she had let that small spark of concern flutter away into the ether. 

Did he ever actually get the next one? She couldn’t remember now. That’s the thing about a spark—sometimes it’s a quiet flicker, gone in an instant. Other times it ignites the whole damn forest and destroys everything in its path. In the end, either way, it’s still fire.  

The circumstances of that first evening together always mattered more than the backdrop so at least at first, Kat never considered whether the place was actually, objectively any good. Pure sentimentality had led them back there fairly regularly. Kat learned to reserve her opinions about the quality of the food, the general atmosphere and the customer service, or lack thereof. None of that had been important. Occhiali Rosa was more than a restaurant, it was a symbol. For what exactly she wasn’t so sure anymore.

As Kat sat there now, she began to view her surroundings clearly for the first time. This place was a Grade A shithole. There was no way around it. What lived in her memory as a charming hole-in-the-wall was really a cramped, foul-smelling sorry excuse for a restaurant in a run-down strip mall. The pungent stench of burnt garlic continued to assault her, as it had since she arrived. Even the menu was sticky with mystery residue, the once-red fabric surrounding the plastic now black with dirt. The waitress, whose icy and detached attitude was now bordering on downright rude, flung a basket of garlic bread in front of her. Kat broke off a piece with a crack and worked her jaw through the first bite of the stale char-flavored cardboard. Tossing the rest back into the dirty basket, she decided she was hungry but not enough to risk losing any teeth. Plus, the high-pitched droning of a nearby fly she knew was there but couldn’t spot was starting to turn her stomach.

The waitress never brought the wine and Kat didn’t mention it. Partly because she hated confrontation and partly because she had no desire to extend this horrific embarrassment of a dining experience any longer than necessary. At one point, Kat brought the gauntlet-style water glass to her lips, trying to ignore the mass of smudges that made her seriously question whether this place even had an operating dishwasher on-site, and then stopped. Three tiny gnats spun around the parameter of the glass. She abruptly set down the glass over a deep red stain in the checkered table cloth she had actively been trying not to identify. Had to be wine—someone else’s obviously—but still, if it was blood they would have thrown the linen away…right?

Eventually the waitress, who would now forever exist as a sadistic villain in Kat’s mind, charged at her with the entrée in hand. Kat knew she would be covered with the greasy, rancid sauce before she even reached the table. Sure enough, the waitress leaned over ever so slightly while lifting the plate so that a few splatters dripped on Kat’s white top. “At least it’s lukewarm,” she thought for the first and hopefully last time a server set down a meal in front of her. Her body would be spared any permanent scaring even if the same wasn’t true for her favorite shirt.

“Oops, was that stain there already or did I just do that?” the newly-minted villainess said without even a hint of regret as Kat uselessly dabbed the stains. “It’s fine. I’ll actually take the check please,” she responded with far more politeness than the situation warranted as the waitress went off to ring her up. 

Kat stared down as the sauce of the Carbonara separated before her eyes. The noodles clung together like a pile of mash potatoes. Kat forced herself to take a few bites and was rewarded with the gurgling of her stomach bile, threatening to rise. Fragments of salty rubber disguised as pancetta and curdled egg floating atop the watery goop made her gag inwardly. She had to get out of here. Now. This restaurant, like Jackson, like their entire relationship, sucked—and probably had always sucked. Maybe this is what it means to get older, she was finally starting to see. 

After leaving a 21% tip (for reasons that she really needed to sort out with a qualified therapist), Kat rushed for the door with her head down. She felt that familiar swell behind her eyes as she blinked back the hurt she had been carrying around all day, if not much longer than that. How many times had she left this very restaurant holding back tears? As she made it to the other side of the door, the fresh autumn air hit her all at once, surprising her. This battle of the seasons was really at its peak today. Too bad she knew how it ended.

 She hurried across the parking lot and as she finally reached for the handle of the car door, she relented and let the tears freely fall. Sitting in the front seat, she slammed the door closed, of course already knowing the car wasn’t going to start. Peering up through blurry vision, she saw Jackson through the windshield jogging across the parking lot towards the restaurant with a sloppily wrapped gift under his arm. His expression was casual if not mildly cheerful, as if he wasn’t an hour-and-a-half late without so much as a text. Luckily he didn’t spot her hidden amongst the parked cars.

Kat had a choice then. She could stay, wipe away the tears and funnel all her fury into a smile—do what she had always done. Excuses would be made and apologies accepted. And who knew what would happen from here. Perhaps they would get back together. All she did know in that moment was stepping out of that car and heading towards Jackson also likely meant choking down the worst, most foul tiramisu in the city. No, not tonight. She had not been very kind to herself lately but the line had to be drawn somewhere.

She steadied her breath and finally clicked the message app on her phone. The rows of texts from her family and friends wishing her a happy birthday made the tears pour down her cheeks even harder. She had avoided her well-wishers all day—the people that actually matter. She hadn’t wanted to lie to them about her plans that night and also couldn’t bear to tell them the truth. The topic of Jackson tended to elicit strong reactions, and she supposed, looking at it now, those reactions might be valid.

Kat pressed the most recent contact on her missed call log and through her tears said, “Did you know Occhiali Rosa is like the absolute worst restaurant in the world?” The comforting sound of knowing laughter filled the other end of the line. “I also ran out of gas again and am going to need a stealthy extraction before I make a huge mistake.”

“I will be right there,” echoed the familiar voice without hesitation.