On a Friday in February

On a Friday in February, the sun already set by the time we pulled out of the garage, I wore the burgundy dress that sat in the donation pile the better part of a year. Too tight, I’d said about the dress. Too big, I’d said about my hips, my thighs, my body. The same body your hands caressed in awe. That evening when I wiggled into the dress I felt my own awe for this body, soft and supple. A body which gives and takes pleasure in equal measure. A body earned through delight, not deprivation. I took photographs to memorialize my beauty. We giggled on the drive, listening to love songs, allowing music to fill in the gaps of our conversation. You held my hand and I watched your gaze, giddy with our happiness like a secret.

On a suburban street in the Salt Lake hills, the restaurant nestled between houses with living rooms lit by televisions, you parked the car while I spoke your name to the hostess. Reservation for two, Seth Norris. A quaint room, warm with candle-like light, only a dozen or so tables, I glanced at the faces leaned across plates, sharing stories and meals. We sat on the banquette, side by side, the seat across from us occupied by the coats we shed. Our view on the unenclosed kitchen, we watched the chefs at their craft. Burly men with broad smiles, their demeanor spirited and jovial. We claimed to taste it in our food. I ordered a Negroni. For you, a gin and tonic. With a mere three sips, the scene became pleasantly fuzzy. The restaurant aglow with merriment. We laughed at my low tolerance. We laughed at the joy of laughter.

You supplied bites of fried chicken, I finished your gin and tonic. Drunk on liquor and love, we whispered tales we’d forgotten to tell one another and ones we told too often. We reminisced on the knowledge harvested by the tending to of intimacy. We murmured I love yous. The bill was already paid, when one of the bearded chefs, who I’d privately noted as my favorite, asked if we’d eaten a dessert. His gaze noticed us, as ours had noticed him. Maybe he privately chose us as his preferred too. He served us decadent chocolate cake, with unnamed maroon berries scattered in the comfort of each bite. With it he brought sweet, ruby wine. Tart and smooth, I drank the gifted glass clean. Stumbling to the bathroom my stomach turned sick with spirits, but I felt no shame about my indulgence. I no longer wished to be small and subdued, deftly hidden, containable in narrow boundaries. Give me too much; I want to overflow, overindulge, overspill with experience, belief, love, zeal, even booze. To one day die, without a penitently bowed head, rather a chin upturned knowing I am wholly too vast for this vessel. As we drove home, the city lights winked behind us.