Revelations in an Olive Garden - Hannah Kurien

“Hi, it’s so nice to meet you!” I say, more bubbly than I knew I was capable of. He pulls me in for a hug, which surprises me. The side of my right boob and the wall of his chest squish together like a cheek pressed against glass. We avoid eye contact as it happens, and I find myself already resentful that he couldn’t simply shake my hand.

Although we made reservations, our table was not yet ready, so we exchanged small talk outside the Olive Garden. It is both a humid and windy evening, so strands of my hair catch onto my lip gloss. He wears a lovely knit sweater that I missed commenting on when I first arrived. I try to ignore the beads of sweat worming down his forehead.

We are both overly gracious to the waitress when we are finally seated, as if competing to win her over. He tells her to take all the time she needs, and the waitress listens, rushing off to another table, having forgotten our utensils.

We stare at the uncut bread and clotted butter.

He asks me what I do for a living, I ask him where he went to school, and we take turns inquiring about the most banal subjects, revealing absolutely nothing in our answers. 

When I attempt to steer us off course, a vain attempt to test if our date is still salvageable, I ask about his aforementioned love for rugby. He shrugs, takes a sip of water, and says, “Oh, you know.” 

I remind myself of the reasons I am on this date. All my high school friends, including Abby, who said she would never get married, will be in the next year and a half. I am sick of friends of friends bestowing dating advice, always unsolicited and remarkably unhelpful. My mother has stopped asking, but her eyes fill when she sees a child out and about with their grandparent. I want to have someone on my arm at work events and dinner parties. I could carry one less weapon when I walk to the ice cream shop at night. I could try more dishes at restaurants and enjoy more convenient sex. My friends would take renewed interest in my life, because there is nothing we devour and dissect more than relationship drama. No one at my book club wants to hear about the six-month-long project I launched at work. 

There is so much to be gained: social capital, security, purpose, mobility. I tell myself this in the silence of our meal.

When the waitress sets my penne down with a warning that it is hot, hot, hot, I try to pace myself so we can finish our meals together. I count to fifteen before each bite, but when he excuses himself to the restroom, I give up. There is an empty bowl in front of me when he returns, and I observe the slightest twitch in his left eye when he notices.

He insists on dessert, so we share a budino that tastes as disappointing as it looks. Unlike the fresh pasta, the pudding is room-temperature and runny. The outside of the glass, petite for its price point, is sticky with chocolate. I let him finish it off, knowing that the end is near.

Our goodbye is succinct. He pays as I sit pretty with my purse, brought only as a formality. He covers the receipt when calculating the tip, and I am polite enough to take sudden interest in the ostentatious framed stock photos of the Italian countryside. 

The misty night is an optical illusion. The air is dry and thick, and I find it difficult to say much of anything. He must have decided somewhere at the table, perhaps when I ate the last piece of complimentary bread or made our waitress snort with laughter, that he did not enjoy my company either.

My car is only a two-minute walk away, but he does not offer to see me off. Instead, we stand at a distance that would make another hug nearly impossible. He walks in the opposite direction of my car, and there is no swooning, forlorn look back. I did not mean to have any expectations for the date, but I still feel adrift standing alone outside an Olive Garden on a Friday night.

I walk to a nearby gelato place because the budino did not satisfy me. The tiny shop is packed with couples, ordering economical large cones and cups, and playfully arguing over flavors. I ask for a double scoop.

On the patio is an older couple carefully feeding one another, and two teenagers, still in the early stages of courting, mindfully spooning gelato into their self-conscious mouths. I sit by the older couple, who are now wiping at each other’s chins. 

There is so much to gain from a relationship, but like everything, just as much at risk. I would lose semblances of freedom: choosing which dessert I want each night, whether to go out on a Wednesday or bail on a crowded party, where to live, and how I like to live. I could lose happiness: the small, thoughtless sacrifices that build up like plaque inside arteries or over teeth, sneaking up on you until the damage is already done. Then there is me. Who will I become to create space for a companion? My brain will learn to omit the jokes they wouldn’t like, and my heart will learn how to beat around theirs, and I am unsure whether I want that.

My plastic spoon is nearly translucent underneath the cheap fairy lights, lining the patio. It hits the bottom of my cup with a mild thud. The older couple smiles at me when they leave. I rest my cheek against my fist and smile back, squinting against the light. A breeze from a car whisks by, and my hair floats behind me like a veil. For the first time that night, I am full.