Weekly Dinner at Margeaux’s

Every Saturday night, we go to dinner at her favorite pizza place—Margeaux’s. It’s her favorite for two reasons: 1. They cook the crust just right. 2. They have her favorite wine. She doesn’t really care that it’s their cheapest wine, and neither do I. I admire how thoughtful she is with her money—she gets paid $356.48 every week.

She works at the smoothie place down the street from my apartment; it’s where we first met. Eight dollars an hour, five and a half hours a day, seven days a week. That’s $308, not counting tips, which is where she gets the other $48.48. Anyway, she loves to sit at the bar. She still orders from the full restaurant menu though, not the limited bar menu, and they let her do that.

She had clearly spent time curling her hair to look pretty. Definitely just for me—she knows I’ll notice. I know she spent an hour or so doing her hair and makeup, and 20 minutes getting dressed. I love the black jeans she’s wearing, especially paired with her bright red top and the tiny gold hoops, rose gold flower necklace, and three rings—one on each middle finger and one on the ring finger of her right hand. She’s saving the ring finger on her left hand for me. We go to dinner every Saturday night.

After she orders, she awkwardly looks down at the menu to seem busy. She doesn’t like to just sit there because she thinks everyone is judging her. I’m not sure why she’s self-conscious about people watching her.

After she put the menu down, she went to the bathroom at 8:31. At first, I thought that it may have been to get away from me. But she came back at 8:34, so then I knew she didn’t run away. Sometimes the bartenders give me weird looks, as if she’s too holy for me. So stupid and judgy. You know bartenders.

She awkwardly looks around the restaurant. I avoid eye contact. I feel weird making eye contact with her; it makes me feel like I’m doing something wrong or weird. Her food comes: the margherita pizza with garlic and peppers. I personally don’t like that combo, not that she’s ever shared it with me or anything, but I came in on Tuesday and tried it out for myself.

She folds her pizza when she eats it, and sometimes the olive oil slips off her food and slides down her wrist, but it’s at that temperature where she doesn’t really notice it until she looks down and realizes her hands are all greasy. But overall, I’d say she’s a very careful eater—she hates getting oil on her clothes. Last time it happened, she just sucked in her cheeks and pushed her lips together, staring at it as if that’d make it go away. She looks a little funny when she does that, but I’d never tell her that; it’s not my place.

She drinks her cheap-ass wine and loves every second of it. I forgot to mention: I tried the wine when I came in last Tuesday—not bad for cheap wine, but I personally don’t think it complements the taste of her pizza. Anyway, she finally gets the check. $38.24. She always tips 20%. Her total is $45.88. She thanks the waiter and quickly packs her purse. I can see her glancing at me through my peripheral vision, and I again find myself avoiding eye contact. I close my tab at the bar. The bartender keeps giving me a weird look, so I stare back. I’m not afraid of him. I can assert my dominance too, asshole! Or whatever he’s trying to do.

While I was busy staring down the bartender, I missed her exit. But that’s no problem, I know where she lives, and I’ll walk her home to make sure she gets to 3921 Hinckley Road safely. The bartender takes a long time to get my check; he’s so chatty with his friend. They continue to give me dirty looks. I continue to give them back. I’m not scared of either one of them.

One of them gives me my check and the other gets on the phone. I put down a $20 bill—it should cover the three Dirty Shirleys I drank, and he can keep the change. I’m in a hurry. As I leave, he looks right at me.

“You’ve gotta stop this, man. It’s getting out of hand, and the same thing happens every time.”

I don’t care. I don’t have a drinking problem or whatever he’s talking about. I have to go. I body slam the door on my way out to make sure she gets home safely.

There are sirens in the background. She doesn’t live in too safe of a neighborhood, so I think it’s my duty to make sure she’s okay. I caught up with her to watch her walk. She must’ve heard me because she turns for a second. I pretend to be on my phone. She’s really funny because she speeds up—I kind of feel like we’re playing a little game of cat and mouse. At this point, we’re about two blocks away.

The sirens keep getting louder. Maybe her neighbor overdosed again… for a fourth time. I wonder if that’s hard on her. Anyway, we’re basically at her front door. I’m speeding up because I want to watch her walk in and give me that sharp look she gives me before slamming the door. We’re sprinting after each other now, my adrenaline is through the roof! I’m on fire! I turn to see the police cars on her block. It must be the overdosed neighbor.

When I turn back, I get a glimpse of her wide-open eyes and the frown forming on her face, and then she slams the door shut. Classic. I start following her up the stairs, but the bright blue and red lights behind me are kind of distracting. I turn and am suddenly being screamed at.

“Sir, put your hands up and don’t move! This is the police!”

I’m unamused. I hear one of them on the phone.

“Yes, officer, it’s the same guy again. No, Margeaux’s was not notified about the restraining order. No… no, I brought it up when I was on the phone with them a few minutes ago.”

This is kind of lousy. How come I get punished for walking a girl home? I was just being nice and making sure no weirdos follow her home, and these assholes have to come here and tell me that I’m in the wrong? They end up giving me a ride to the station every Saturday, and every Saturday I tell them the exact same thing:

“I was walking her home after our date.”

I’m not sure why they’ve got some order against me. I’m a nice guy. I take a girl on a date and I walk her home every Saturday. I’m a consistent guy. They say my next step is “jail time.” Apparently, I’m “sick.” Apparently, what I’m doing is “not right,” “stalkerish,” “weird,” and “disgusting.” I was literally walking her home, but whatever. Throw me behind bars. I’ll see her at Margeaux’s soon enough.