Romantic Dinner Gone Wrong: A Tale of Love and Loss

What Should Have Been

"Chief, what should be. Go get me the bill."

I was going to ask the painful question, but I feared that in this case, besides the pain, there would be relief. Just as we saw, some time ago, both of us together, hand in hand, her and me.

I always dined alone at tables of ten. This time, it was reserved, and even less for two. We chose the most romantic, isolated table, the only one we thought had never been used.

We came hungry for many things, willing to quench every thirst. Boredom was never an option. Staying with desire wasn't on the menu.

For a while, everything was deconstructed, all wrong. We ate with our eyes, touched with our lips, and tasted with our skin. We were in all shifts, over and under the tablecloth, and there were none left to recommend. We knew what our plate was, at which point we wanted it, and how far we were going to try. But not when.

Maybe that's why I remember well the day she began to call out a letter. The day my fresh salad became a heavy pavement of defects. The day her scrambled doubts became a mild mental pie.

And then I saw it. She was in love with me because I wanted this one in which they tried to convert me. Like one who, by dint of just requiring a Mexican sushi, burritos to paella in an Italian or Japanese. It was stupid to try to understand. Useless to try to figure out why.

Still, I'm not going to order the book claims. No one's fault. It just happened, and before we knew it, she wondered what they ate at other tables. The two of us drank to avoid talking, and I looked at the messages on my phone while trying to hide our desire to overcome the crisis of our crisis.

Gradually, without realizing it, we had become one of those couples we at first looked at with a mixture of laughter, fear, and grief. Those who only spoke to criticize things, those that transform any occasion into a tense quiet, face to face, any place into a way, any guest into a less bad.

Now that I know all afternoon and feel worse, everything reminds me of a casino. More important than knowing how to be is knowing when to leave.

While here, you see, the last one up pays. Do me a favor, never discount everything I asked and still had to take, like their family dinners, her reproaches to my best friends, and my straw to light at night on TV. Nor do I put what I asked and never brought me. Like this life together, these plans made to lie, those children who had a name long before, this family home that we could never afford.

Discount all that and tell me how much I owe you. I'll pay you. And don't worry if at the end nothing blocks. Don't worry if you pay me more. With the change, give me another favor. Send a bottle of champagne to her lips at that table.