11/13/11

Restaurant Wars
By Amy Tripp


She plucked one of the complimentary breadsticks from the basket and wagged it like a finger. "Some day my phone will interface with my oven."

"That's the best you can do? Really?" The game was stupid, but we always played. The rules were simple: one of us imagined an invention, the other topped it. "Why would anyone need that?"

"Because my oven takes forever to preheat. Most nights I just want to get home, throw in some tenders and tots, and watch reality TV. But my oven takes so long. I end up using the microwave, and then everything's soggy. If I could start my oven using the phone, it'd be hot when I need it. Problem solved." She nibbled the breadstick.

"Do adults actually eat tenders and tots?"

"I do."

"My point exactly."

She grinned and wadded her napkin, launching it at me. I threw it back. God knows, she'd need it soon enough. I may worship her, but even I can admit she has the table manners of Cookie Monster. "You do know most ovens have presets, right?"

She threatened another napkin assault, but didn't follow through. "The first invention's allowed to be lame."

"Fine. We start with dial-able ovens. Okay, so some day ovens will heat in seconds. No need for phoned-in preheat orders."

The waitress tossed our appetizer onto the table and stomped away. "Why do we even come here?"

She waved off the question. "Some day ovens will judge what a food is and cook it perfectly. And instantly."

"Even turkey?" It was the biggest thing I could think of.

"Even turkey."

I pulled off a chunk of onion bloom and popped it into my mouth, pretending it wasn't brimstone hot. "I've got tickets for the game next week."

"Yeah?" She scarfed some onion without batting an eyelash. "Who're you taking?"

"Har. Har."

Her face fell into its sorrowful look, the one with dewy eyes and pouty lips. It's sexy as hell, but she thinks it makes her look sad. "You know my rule."

"Yeah, yeah. No dating coworkers. Funny, the company doesn’t give a shit."

"Well, I do. We've been over this."

She didn't sound mad, yet, which meant I could push a little harder. "We go out to dinner every week. We might as well be dating." I should've used a breadstick to punctuate the point.

"That's just as friends. We even split the bill." It was always the same argument.

At least I had a new answer. "Yeah, but maybe all this time, I've been buying your meal."

"What?" She laughed and noshed another onion petal.

"We split the bill, so we don't know who's paying for what. Could be I've been buying your dinner all along."

She was supposed to come up with some barbed reply, but instead she looked like she'd kicked a puppy. This wasn't some conjured, faux-misery expression. Great. Now I was Pitiful Guy, the one doesn't know when to quit. "How long will you keep asking me out?" Her voice was almost too quiet, but she didn't sound irritated. Maybe regretful?

"Until I get sick of waiting."

"How long will that be?"

How the hell should I know? How long does it take to fall out of love? It sure didn't take long to fall into it. I shrugged and pushed the onion toward her. It suddenly smelled like rotting grease caught in a hair-clogged sink.

"Don't give up yet. Please?" She reached over and touched my hand.

I nodded. Hell if I knew what to say. We don't do serious.

She glanced around and then leaned forward, biting her lip. "You know how I took some personal time on Monday?"

"Yeah."

"I had a job interview."

"You did?"

"I got the job."

"Really? Are you taking it?"

She nodded. "In two weeks, we won't be coworkers."

When had I leaned forward? I settled back, resting my hands across my gut. Pitiful Guy had left the building. "Some day there'll be no need for ovens. We'll have heat-vision eye implants."

"Ouch! That sounds painful." She laughed and snagged more onion.


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Amy is a full-time wife, mother & worker. Part-time dreamer, sometimes knitter. She crafts gnome trails in her woods & universes on paper.