Victoria Williams: 0021

My Favourite Restaurant

My favourite restaurant is the one that even in mid-January, in the thick of a blizzard, in sub-zero temperatures, will still put the plastic chairs and tables outside on the pavement in a futile bid to attract customers. I try to encourage this habit by making use of them throughout the year.

One November evening I was sitting with Sara to my right, talking about her new steam iron, and a string of lights entwined around the tree branches, shining on the cold mist, making the air sparkle.

It goes without saying that I wasn't listening to her. I mean, who really wants to know about nylon trousers* anyway? I was otherwise engaged, staring at the heavenly creature directly opposite. You know, the one whom, if there weren't two tables between us, I'd be over there making love to? Sara could tell because I was (apparently) stroking the neck of the ketchup bottle in a suggestive manner.

He looked like an oil painting, though only because with my eyesight, everyone looks smudged, and thus much better in a brush-stroked sort of way. I have always wanted to describe someone as having plumb-coloured hair - and as well him as another. He had plumb-coloured, spidery hair, and heavy bedroom eyes (bags under the eyes = sleepless nights, see?). I don't have to tell you that he was solitary (why else would I be interested?) and looking lost in his overcoat. Looking moody. Looking tortured. Looking like we both ought to go strolling through the snow like a certain photograph I wish to emulate, both of us unwilling to link arms with the world.

'One day,' I thought as he mistakenly stirred salt into his coffee, 'you will father my sickly children.'

* In the ensuing blackout three days later, Sara and Jim were able to power the automatic gravy-stirrer, using the static electricity generated by their nylon trousers rubbing against each other.