The waiter appears with menus. He stops cold and assesses my current situation.
“Looks like someone is excited to be with us this evening.”
I can feel my face flush. I am thankful for the darkness.
“I’m Michael, and I’ll be your server this evening. Would you like to hear about the specials?”
“Please!” I say, thankful for someone else to talk.
Michael tells us about the specials—not one of which, sadly, contains arsenic to end my agony—and when he is finished, the sommelier appears with a bottle of red wine, extending my humiliation without a chance to apologize to Leo.
“I took the liberty of ordering one of my favorite Napa Cabs,” Leo says.
The sommelier uncorks the bottle and pours a small amount for Leo to taste. He swishes and smells, sips, smiles and nods.
“Perfect. Thank you.”
The sommelier fills our glasses.
“I’ll give you a few moments to enjoy the wine and study the menus,” Michael says.
“Cheers!” Leo says.
He clinks my glass, and I sip the deep red. When I put my glass down, Leo gestures to my mouth. I feel red wine dribbling down my chin.
I lift my napkin to dab my face, and realize too late it remains in a turgid state.
I cannot even face Leo anymore. I am an old man who has been reduced to the boy on the playground who picks on the girl he likes because he has no idea what to say to her.
I lift the menu in front of my face to hide my humiliation, but it is so dimly lit that I cannot see a letter, much less a word, that is printed. If I were undertaking an eye test, the optometrist would simply start weeping.
“Sid.”
Leo takes my menu. He places it on the table and then reaches over and takes my hand in his.
“I can’t even see the menu,” I admit. “Not a letter. I don’t just need a large-print menu, I need it in Braille.”
Leo smiles a sweet smile.
“Why I am here?” I ask him. I don’t mean for my voice to shake, but it does. “I mean, look at you. Look at me. Do you have a fetish for old men? Do you cruise nursing homes?”
“Sid—” Leo says again.
“No, let me finish. Please.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t do this,” I say. “I mean, I’ve hooked up—or whatever the kids say these days—a few times when I was younger, but I’ve never even been out on a date—I mean, a real, actual date—with a man before.Ever.You could have your pick of any guy in Palm Springs, or San Francisco... I mean, just name a city, and you could have the Matt Bomer in any of them. I likeyou, Leo, but I amnotlike you. I don’t think this old body is what you want, and I don’t think this old heart can take hearing you say that.”
I start to stand. Leo grabs my hand.
“I don’t want Matt Bomer. I like Sid Silverstein.”
“Why?”
“The fact you have to ask actually breaks my heart in two,” he says. “Please, sit.”
I do.
