The Ghost Of You and the Ghost of Me

Somewhere in this restaurant is a ghost of you. I can feel it the second I walk in- with my arm linked in his like we’re school children in love. We don’t wait at the host stand; instead, he waves to the girl with the bright red lips and bottle blonde curls. She blushes. I pretend not to notice her.

Instead, I see  the chairs neatly lined against one wall where the ghost of me curls up next to the ghost of you. I bit your ear playfully. You gave me a kiss on the nose. We felt like real adults. 

The hostess doesn’t show him to a table-instead he marches right back to the one by the kitchen so that he can peek his head through the black double doors. I peek, too. Inside I smell the intense aroma of spices flying through the air. A gasp escapes me at the sight of blue and orange flames leaping from a silver pan as one of the men in white calls out, “Jimmy! Glad to have you back, man! You gotta try this salmon!” 

And he laughs. He smiles that smile that closes deals each week at work. The one that is shot to young girls with stiletto heels on. The one that won me over six months ago when he slid the diamond ring on my finger that feels like a literal ball and chain. Only shinier.

We duck out from the kitchen and I try not to see the ghost of you asking for a booth instead of a table. The hostess that night rolled her eyes and said, “Sir, it’s a very busy night.”

Tonight is a busy night, but when my finace takes me by the hand and leads me to our table I notice the red wine has already been poured in tall, elegant glasses. The kind I’m going to wrap my fingers around and press to my lips that are colored the exact same shade. And I know he is going to laugh. Offer me a kiss. Which I will return.

But it won’t be like the kisses that I see the ghost of you giving the ghost of me a few tables down. Because you pushed the fancy chairs wearing red leather together on one side so your ghost could slip his hand down my thigh. So you didn’t have to crane your neck to scatter kisses on mine. I can still feel that ghost’s hand. It isn’t cold, but warm, which somehow makes it scarier.

He sees my eyes drifting-desperately avoiding the tide of memories that your ghost pulls me into. “Try the wine,” he says, a different smile on his lips. This one is sad. It gazes down at me. Or maybe up?

Like he is desperate to win me over.

So I take a deep breath. The kind that lingers in my chest. My lips press together and part slightly when I raise my glass to them. Wine hits different here, I think, because of the beauty of the candlelight dining room. Or maybe it’s the way a full orchestra blares through the speakers fooling you into thinking you really are in Italy. I smile back at him. At this mountain of a man in his black suit with his black tie and black shoes. His hair is all greased back. He is clean shaven with just a touch of cologne. I know it’s the cologne I got him for his birthday-the one that boasts a soft fireside scent with a hint of pine.

I tell him the wine is so, very, good. This makes the scary smile disappear. A more approving smile finds its way back to the table.

“Isn’t it?” he says while swirling his portion in his glass. He raises it to me and we clink to true love. “That ring is just lovely on you, isn’t it? Just perfect,” he compliments. I nod approvingly while pulling my long, black hair from behind my neck to one side just like he likes it. 

 A waiter dressed like a penguin waddles up to us. He has his hair gelled back and straightens his back as I watch my fiance’s gaze size him up. I clear my throat. Before the waiter can say anything or even offer us menus, my eyes go big when my order is placed for me. “I’ll take the salmon and she’ll have the prime rib-medium rare. Side of mashed potatoes for us each. We need more wine. Also, the creme brulee for dessert,” his voice sends the waiter scurrying to the kitchen in fear. I take another sip of wine because that order was positively fucking perfect.

I close my eyes-pretending to drift on the soft sweetness of the wine, but really I am seeing the ghost of you attempting to take in the menu. You hissed a few questions at me. And I told you the answers because I had exactly one year of culinary school under my belt. And we laughed together. The ghost of you and the ghost of me were laughing in this restaurant with abandon that only happens when you’re under 18. Our words whisper back to me like wind carried on the backs of music notes.

As the waitress approached us your ghost asked mine if I thought he could convince her that he was 21. It didn’t work. We got soda pops and she rolled her eyes. We each ordered the cheapest thing on the menu-spaghetti and meat sauce. As soon as the waitress took our menus, the ghost of you leaned in for a kiss and the ghost of me turned it into a full make out session. 

“I’ve been here before,” I say. My voice cracks at the end of the sentence. And he looks up at me, reaches out a hand to attempt to bridge the sea I have created between the two of us. “Yeah, a while ago,” I tell him. “Like,” I stutter between bursts of nervous laughter, “Like fiveish years ago?”

I pose the question, but I know it’s not a question because it was on this exact day because it was 2011 and my birthday landed on a Friday. It’s 2016. My birthday is back on a Friday. I take a sip of liquid courage before explaining, “Yeah my, um, boyfriend in college took me here. We were both broke so it was a real…big deal.”

My glass is empty.

I frown. His eyebrows-perfectly groomed because he visits a salon once a month-furrow. The glass hits the table sending a hollow reverberation out to the man I claim to love more than anything in the world. “He, uh, saved all his money, but still could only buy me spaghetti. We didn’t even order dessert,” I say-my mind drifting to the creme brulee.

He still has a puzzled look on his face. As if he has spent his whole existence untouched by young love. Because a man like that doesn’t lose control like that. Our food arrives on steaming plates. Saved by the food just doesn’t sound the same, I realize. We dig in. His smile comes back. His brow unfurrows. A bite is balanced on the edge of the tines of his fork. He lifts it softly into my mouth and I nod appreciatively before dribbling the au jus over my rib. Of course he asks for a nibble of the fat. His dark brown eyes roll back in his head because he has just experienced a real food orgasm. I can tell because his cheeks relax. His lips close softly around the bite. I wave the waiter over because I need more wine. 

“The spaghetti and meat sauce is amazing!” my ghost said to yours. 

“Don’t lie,” your ghost said to me. We laughed. Our meals were devoured and we leaned back in our fancy chairs. Our bellies were wonderfully full. “Someday,” your ghost said and then a burp escaped, triggering another round of giggles followed by kisses. “Someday, I’mma be a chef in a place like this. I know I gotta work my way up-line cook, sous chef, you know the works, but I’mma do it. And then, we’ll be the VIPs when we visit. And we’ll eat all of the fancy au jus we want. And you can pick a different dessert every night.” 

The sound of my ghost’s voice echoed in my ears, “Every night?”

“Every night,” your ghost promised me. We seal the promise with a kiss before your ghost’s hand finds mine. “Come on, we gotta get out of here. I didn’t tip,” your ghost said. We laughed and ran out the doors into the cold, spring air. 

I finish my second glass of wine when the dessert comes. It is presented by the chef friend from the kitchen. He has a devilish look on his face. The sugar is sprinkled. The torch comes to life. I tell him to just. keep. burning. A brief look of concern is flashed. I laugh. The torch is turned off, but I could’ve taken more. Before I am allowed to eat I must gush about the wedding.

“Yes,” I say dutifully, “The proposal was a surprise! We’re thinking of a summer wedding of course so Jimmy’s parents can fly in.”

The chef nods in approval.

“We’re doing a lovely bright, yellow color palette inspired by the Mathews’ trip to India!” I boast.

He looks at me expectantly. His beady black eyes rimmed with red. I imagine them rolling back in his head as he takes another shot outside the kitchen-telling himself the alcohol is meant to stave off the cold.

“I will call you about the catering of course," I add.

“At a discount, of course. For my good friend, Jimmy!” says the chef with a big laugh. His bright red Santa Clause cheeks look like puffy cloud. “Hey, listen,” he gets a serious look on his face as his voice drops an octave, “I got someone I want you to meet.”

He waves a big hand over at the double doors. Out walks a skinny, tall, creature. His big, white toque doesn’t help. As he gets closer I take a short breath in. “My sous chef,” says Jimmy’s friend. And the ghost of you suddenly becomes real. I resist the urge to reach out and touch you to prove that it isn’t all a dream.

“And if you let him cater your wedding I think we could do an even bigger discount, eh!?” the chef’s eyes light up. His bobblehead begins quaking with excitement. Up and down. Up and down.

My lips curl into a smile.

I take a deep breath and say…