I'm letting Todd choose our destination; no use in fighting when he's only going to get his way in the end. I'm learning to pick and choose my battles; this one isn't worth fighting. We've been walking around for what seems like hours and everyplace we look is not to his liking. I never knew, until know, that he's was a picky eater; I thought he would eat anything anyone put in front of him.
We settle on an intimate restaurant called "Maroon's" in Chelsea. Messing around with him, we ended up walking from 70th Street on the Upper West Side to 16th Street and my legs are killing me. He probably would've thrown me over his shoulders if I complained about the discomfort I'm in.
A sign hangs in the window that everyone must have reservations, but Todd leaves me for a moment to speak to the hostess. I see him pull out a wad of cash and thrust it in her direction. She shakes her head, "no," and gives us a table anyway. It's not that crowded, surprisingly. Space is so limited, the tables are practically on top of each other; but we're lucky and there is no one around us.
The restaurant is divided into two sections separated by a wall and both non-smoking. Each table has a candle and the lights are dimly lit, adding to the ambiance. I nod in approval, feeling more relaxed than I've felt in a very long time.
"The food better be good," Todd grumbles, staring at me from across the table.
"I didn't know you liked soul food," I comment, looking over the menu, suddenly craving collard greens.
"I don't."
"Then why'd you pick this place?"
"Because, when we were in Savannah, you kept talkin' about the food so I figured I can fatten you up with all this greasy food."
"If I recall correctly, you ate quite a bit of that greasy food."
"Well, you know, it was there."
I stop looking at the menu, focusing on him instead. I would never say this to him, but he looks so beautiful in this light; I love the way the candles dance across the shadows of his face. He is a mysterious man; this lighting only adds to his mystery.
Our waitress comes to our table, sets a piece of cornbread in front of us both and asks for our drink order. I cannot drink with this medication, so, out of respect for me, Todd orders a plain soda. I resume my study of him.
"What are you lookin' at?" he asks, not bothering to tear his eyes away from his menu. I smile shyly, as if there is something to be shy about. We've been married two times, yet I still get this "little girl" feeling in the bottom of my stomach.
"You."
"Why?"
"Because you can be so sweet when you want."
"Yeah, that's me, Mr. Sweet," he replies, with an exaggerated roll of his eyes.
I can tell he's enjoying this just as much as me. His lips betray him; as he tries to suppress a smile, the corners of his mouth lift upwards, as if they're trying to touch his eyebrows. Just looking at him like this brings an indescribable joy. And suddenly, my appetite returns, I close the menu and smile at him.
"What are you up to?"
"I'm not up to anything; I just figured out what I want."
"Fried chicken, mac and cheese and greens."
"How'd you know?"
"I pay attention."
He and I order the same meal when our waitress returns. While we wait, there isn't much conversation between us, only the sound of alternating jazz and reggae, with a little bit of R & B coming through the speakers. Several times, the hostess comes by to see if there's anything we need, adding a kind of personal treatment is a bit unusual in this day and age.
Todd keeps looking at me, while pretending like he's not doing just that. It almost feels like a first date, with both of us so nervous and so attracted to each other, that we can barely stand it. In a different time and place, I know exactly what I would be doing with him while we sit and wait.
When we were in Savannah, he would always request the most private table in the back of the restaurant. It was usually dimly lit and secluded, perfect for lovers. Underneath the table, after we had started to become more comfortable with our sexual relationship, I would remove my sandals and run my foot up and down his leg. That usually led to my foot finding its way to his beautiful organ and massaging it until neither one of us could stand it. One of two things would always happen: he would explode silently from the beautiful torture, or we would excuse ourselves and make a quick trip to the bathroom together. He was embarrassed only the first time, but after that, I think he grew to expect it. I tried to never disappoint him.
Our meal finally comes and, as I'd expected, it is wonderful. We do not say much of anything as we devour our food, gracelessly feasting on the chicken as if it's our last meal. This is the best I've felt in a very long time, like life just might have something good in store for me. I know, however, that this is a temporary state and that I'd better savor every moment.
Todd is finished long before I, and he rests his elbows on the table as watches my every move. His eyes do not make me nervous, although I blush under the flickering candlelight. For the first time in months, I actually feel beautiful. I know one can't define their lives by a person or thing, but I when the two of us are together, I feel more alive than I've ever felt in my life.
"You want dessert?" he asks, still not taking his eyes away from me.
"No, thank you. This is plenty."
"But they have that peach junk you like."
"As I recall, you like that peach 'junk,' which is called cobbler, by the way."
"Whatever."
He orders a piece of cobbler for each of us, even though I insist my stomach cannot handle another bite. The tables around us begin to fill and the air, which was once only filled with the sounds of music, is filled with a different melody; those of various voices with accents from around the world.
He rolls his eyes, and I know this part of the evening will be over very soon. Then, we will have to deal with these living arrangements that he thinks will be permanent. I do not want to hurt him, but this is a very dangerous game we're playing. It is always so dangerous with us when our feelings are involved; we're both so passionate, especially about each other.
I'm beginning to feel a little paranoid; I know it would not be beyond the realm of possibility for Blair to have him followed. The last thing he needs is to be seen with me, spawning yet one more battle with her. I can't be responsible for that; I won't be responsible for that.
He must've been watching me for a long time before breaking into my world of thoughts. "Delgado, I'm not goin' anywhere."
"What?" I ask, looking up at him. God, he has the most serious and heartbreaking expression on his face. If things were different, I would run to him and throw my arms around his neck. There's so much there, so many unsaid things dancing around in his eyes. He is struggling, just as I am struggling and I suspect both of are angry that fate has thrown us yet another roadblock.
"Stop thinkin' about how you're gonna get rid of me; I'm not leavin'."
I sigh deeply, not knowing how I will win this argument with him. I am no longer self assured, especially when it comes to him. I am so helpless when it comes to him; it's only with him that I feel as though I have no control.
"What?" he asks, knowing full well there was there is a war going on inside my head.
"I don't think this is a good idea."
"What's not a good idea?"
I don't want to say the words to him; I can't say them because there will be no conviction, they would be empty letters flowing without conviction. "I can't do this," I sniffle.
He suddenly stands up and reaches for my hand. He drops a few hundreds on the table, and drags me out of the restaurant. I let him take control of this moment, not possessing the strength to deny him anything; my empty words have taken everything from me.
*****
We end up in the Village, snaking up and down the intersecting streets. He does not speak for a very long and I like it this way. We arrive at a sidewalk café, on West 4th. He and I choose a table, sit, and I wait.
Finally, he looks up at me after staring at his hands for what seems like an eternity. "I fucked up," he says quietly, breaking my heart with the look in his eyes.
"What?" I ask, not sure that I heard him right.
"I shouldn't have married her, but I was missin' you so much and everything was just fallin' apart. I should've looked for you, but I thought you hated me."
I reach over to him, touching his cheek with the palm of my hand. I could never hate him, no matter what he does, I could never feel an emotion as strong as the love I feel for him. "No."
"But I thought, 'cause you left, everything was so messed up those last few days and I couldn't blame you for hating me 'cause I hated me and-"
I want to interrupt, to stop his rambling, but I let him continue; this is something that's obviously been on his mind for a long time. I am paralyzed with love and fear at the same time. It is I who should do the self-loathing. I am the one who threw up my hands in defeat, breaking my promise to him.
"And I can't blame you 'cause I'm such a bastard, you know that, Tea. If I had it to do all over,-"
"The same thing would happen because everything that's supposed to happen, does, whether we like it or not."
"You really believe that?" he asks, skeptical that someone in my "condition" would say such a thing.
I think about it for a few moments, and I realize I do mean it, even though life has been quite cruel to me. "I do," I say without further explanation.
"Well I don't," he says angrily. "I'll give it all up; I'd give up everything for you; just don't shut me out again."
