. . . a small salad
I failed miserably at waiting up for Noah. By the time he got back, he found me drooling on my keyboard. He swooped in to help, saving my doc and clearing my laptop away. That is, of course, after he finished collecting photographic evidence.
‘You should post this. Show your readers that you’re literally eating, sleeping and breathing this column.’
He flashes the photo at me and I take in the mess of curls and limp, dangling arms. My spine forms a C-shape as it bends over my keyboard, topped by my disgustingly hunched shoulders.
I grab his phone and look him dead in the eye as my thumb grazes over the delete button.
But he smiles on, even as the photo disappears.
He’s always in high spirits, but this morning exceptionally so.
‘Why so smiley?’ I ask. ‘I suspect it has something to do with a certain brunette on a boat?’
He shrugs. ‘She was lovely, but I can’t see it going anywhere.’
I stare, gobsmacked. ‘How could you not? You two literally couldn’t stop laughing.’
I had Hendrik by my side and yet I still felt like I was third-wheeling in their presence. They had the light, bubbly aura of a honeymoon couple. I really thought they stood a chance at something at least.
‘You’re right – we could not stop laughing.’ He smiles, casting his mind back. ‘Beautiful girl, amazing chemistry. Surface-level conversation, though. I tried to push deeper – especially once we got to the coffee shop, but we just didn’t have much in common.’
‘That’s a shame,’ I sigh.
‘A big one. The chemistry went crazy. I just know if I’d brought her back here, we could have . . .’ He trails off.
‘Had an emotionally stimulating conversation in a smaller, more intimate space?’
‘Yep, stimulating conversation. And I would have stimulated her well, I’ll tell you that.’ His lip curls as I grimace.
I start to tell him to let her down gently, but he informs me that they already climbed that hurdle last night.
They talked it through before leaving and she respected his honesty.
The whole thing sounds incredibly mature and far too good to be a true story, but somehow I still believe it.
Noah has an endearing rawness to him that pushes me to take his words as truth.
‘I’m proud of you,’ I say as I start to pack up my bag. ‘It seems tough now, but, trust me, it will be worth it. Plus, sex with feelings hits different.’
He huffs. ‘At this rate, by the time I get there my memories will be too far gone to compare.’
I roll my eyes before making my way out the door and leaving him to his remote workday, but his last words stay with me on my walk.
In fact, it makes me realise that I barely remember what it feels like to get that far with someone.
And I certainly don’t remember what it feels like to actually enjoy going through with the deed.
Sex with Tom started fun, I think, once upon a time.
But looking back, it was fun in the way that anything new is.
It was foreign and exciting because we were new.
Then the newness faded and what was left was comparatively mundane.
The longer we stayed together the more we both got complacent, especially when it came to being physical.
By the time we ended, I think there was a part of me that was subconsciously avoiding getting naked with him.
There was no point going through all the fuss and the lead-up for a sweaty three minutes of something deeply awkward and mildly uncomfortable.
The thought of him floundering on top of me sticks with me for a moment and sends a shiver down my spine.
I close my eyes, desperate to think of anything else and am immediately met with the image of Noah’s lips on my neck.
I practically feel his fingers grip at my flesh as my back presses harder against the kitchen counter.
We’re in Brussels, and I’m moaning and throwing my head back as he sucks on my . . .
God, I need to stop. What happened to rule number eight?
I shake it off, take a deep breath and whip out my phone camera to fix my hair. It makes sense that I thought of it. It was my last good kiss that didn’t face a mortifying end. Hopefully today changes that. I smooth down my sundress the closer I get to the restaurant.
Hendrik’s already waiting for me by the time I reach it, wearing a crisp blue shirt and pair of smart black trousers. He looks up and smiles, squinting through the sun to make out my figure as I lumber on towards him.
‘Great table choice!’ I commend him as I slide into my seat.
He picked one right next to the canal, overlooking the water as the sun streams in overhead.
‘You’ve got to get in early with these things,’ he says, leaning in closer. ‘A lot of these tourists don’t know that. They think booking will get them a table of choice and then they show up and complain, but you’ve still got to get here early and request the best ones in person.’
‘Good tip,’ I thank him, mainly to move the conversation on.
He’s even more handsome in the daylight. Garishly so. Like a Ken doll come to life and then pumped full of filler. His face is so symmetrical that it comes across a little uncanny. I pour a glass of water from the jug and try to stop staring.
‘What’s good here?’ I ask, picking up the menu.
‘I’ve already ordered.’
‘Oh, cool, well, I’ll read quickly, then.’
‘No – for both of us.’
I look back up at him, confused.
‘I know the food well.’ He reaches over and snatches my menu from my hand.
The first course arrives – a bowl of olives to share.
What a bold and divisive item to order on someone else’s behalf.
I pick at one just to be nice while he fills me in on his morning.
They taste just as bad as I remember. I clamp my mouth shut and muddle through as the briny taste floods my mouth, balancing the stone between my two back teeth.
‘I’m not really an olive girl,’ I say, removing the stone from my mouth.
‘Everyone says that until they grow into the taste. Have another.’ He holds the bowl out towards me.
‘I think I’m done growing,’ I say.
‘Trust me, they’ll grow on you. It happens to everyone at some point.’
I don’t think it happens to everyone. I’m sure there are many adults in the world that still don’t like olives in their older years.
I go to object but quickly stop myself because there’s no real point in arguing about olives with a guy I probably won’t see again.
So instead, I nod, a taut smile stretching across my lips in an attempt to sell my lie with conviction.
‘Steak, well done?’ the waitress asks as she reemerges, plate in hand.
She places it in front of him, along with a plate of greens and a heaping side of chips.
Good as it looks, I pray he hasn’t ordered me one too.
Does he even know I don’t eat meat? I don’t recall it coming up.
Come to think of it, I don’t recall anything about me coming up.
I think back to yesterday’s chatter and it occurs to me he’s never asked me anything about myself.
Unless, of course, it was to do with the gym.
He grabs his knife and fork, and tears into the meat as the smell wafts across the table and under my nose.
The scent, regardless of its meatiness, does a good job of reminding me that I didn’t eat breakfast this morning and am, in fact, quite hungry.
I hope my meal comes soon. And I hope whatever it is comes animal-free so I can get stuck in.
‘And the quinoa salad, minus the quinoa?’ she asks.
He nods for her to place the new plate in front of me.
It does look good – a bowl of lettuce, radishes, red onions and red peppers, among other vegetables cut too small for me to even begin to guess. It also, however, is the size of my fist. I wait in silence for the rest of my main to arrive.
Nothing comes and he keeps eating. I glance around again but the waitress is off with other tables, paying us no mind.
‘Have I got anything else coming?’ I ask.
He looks up, perplexed. ‘No, that’s your meal.’
‘Oh.’
I look down again. It’s five mouthfuls of food at most. There’s no way that’s what constitutes a main meal. I reach for the menu and start flicking.
‘What are you doing?’ he asks.
‘Just seeing what else they have on offer,’ I say, reading.
This salad doesn’t even look like it’s a main offering . . . I scan page after page and find it listed as a side. Maybe Hendrik missed the ‘side’ label when he was ordering.
‘You don’t like it?’ he asks. ‘You haven’t tried it.’
‘It looks nice, it’s just a little small,’ I say. ‘If you see the waitress, could you call her over? That mushroom tart is calling my name.’
I start to salivate at the thought of creamy mushrooms and look around for the server in an attempt to call her over, meeting Hendrik’s concerned eyes on the way.
‘You had that stroopwafel last night, remember.’ His brow is creased beyond repair.
‘Yeah . . .’ I don’t see the correlation.
‘So, the salad is perfect for today.’
He stretches his words long and slow, with wide nodding eyes as if he’s explaining basic arithmetic to a child. He’s dead serious. He sees no problem with this . . .
Houston, we have a gym bro.
And that’s fine. I already knew that, given his profession and his talk of macros and active heart rates. I have no issues with a gym bro – feel free to focus on yourself, but don’t take your toxic relationship with your body and push it onto me.
As I look across at him, it’s clear from the smile on his face that he’s incredibly proud to have balanced my meals for me. It is that genuine smile alone that stops me from clocking out of this date altogether.
‘I loved the waffle last night, yes, but I still want something bigger than this salad today,’ I reply, just as slowly.
I reach my hand out for the waitress, but Hendrik lightly brings it back down. I bite my tongue yet again.
‘Trust me, you’re better off with the salad.’
‘I don’t want a salad,’ I say calmly. I’m being so calm.
He shakes his head. ‘You haven’t been to the gym yet. Are you planning to? Without it, you have no chance at a calorie deficit.’
I feel my face muscles relax. I’m done plastering on smiles and giving him the benefit of the doubt. Who brings up deficits at the dinner table? Especially to a practical stranger. I take a deep breath before I continue.
‘No, I probably won’t go to the gym while I’m here, and I’m okay with that.’
His eyes widen. ‘Oh, wow. Well, then, yes, definitely stick with the salad.’
I want to scream.
I squeeze my lips tight and look to the table to stop myself from completely blowing my top, but all I see is my salad. My small, measly salad without the quinoa, because, apparently, I’m too big for even a grain.
I replay his words and his tone over again in my head and feel a red-hot burning rage rise within me.
I am appalled and hungry, and, if I give in to my instincts, two seconds away from flipping the table.
But I cannot. Not in public. The lovely people around us enjoying their regular-sized meals don’t deserve such a scene.
So I take a deep breath, steady myself and look back up at Hendrik as he ploughs along with his steak none the wiser.
‘I think I will get that tart,’ I say calmly.
‘No, you won’t. Not while you’re on a date with me,’ he says firmly.
‘Pardon?’ I ask.
I surely can’t have heard that right. Not in the twenty-first century.
‘Just eat your salad.’ He tuts, hacking at his meat. ‘Trust me, I’m doing this for your own good.’
I skewer some stray lettuce with my fork and shove it in my mouth purely to stop myself from replying. It’s bitter and a little too crunchy, making the chewing all that more difficult. But I power through. I can’t speak. I will explode at this table. It’s too soon and my head is too hot.
‘I’m gonna pop to the loo,’ I manage to say, once I have swallowed it down.
The words shake with my rage, but he doesn’t even notice. He nods at me, smiling as I scrape back my chair and leave the table.
And then I run.
We were sitting outside so I know he can see me, but I’m past the point of caring. I head down the canal, through the park and back over the bridge, and find the first café I can see that looks like it has Wi-Fi.
Thank God I packed my laptop.