Sam and I arrived at Lustre Pearl, a cocktail lounge in the River North Art District near downtown around nine, two hours later I’m thinking this isn’t going to happen tonight.
“Should we go somewhere else?”
Sam dances around me, “No, this is my song!”
The guys that I’ve talked to tonight are not really what I had in mind for my ‘last meal’ as Sam keeps calling it. I mean if it were your last meal, would you demand filet mignon or settle for chicken fingers? There’s a cute guy who I keep making eye contact with across the dance floor, but I think he might still be in college, and I’m not really in the mood to be the older woman tonight.
It’s not like I’m going to be pregnant tomorrow, there’s still time, but as I look at the scene around me, people laughing and dancing, their arms swaying to the music with one hand clutched around their cocktail while the other arm waves freely, I wonder if this is the right approach.
I open one of the three dating apps on my phone and start to peruse, hoping there is someone there I can swipe right on. I’m considering a personal trainer with a beard when Sam grabs my phone out of my hand.
She waves it around as she dances.
“Hey! I was just about to swipe right.”
I try my best to pout but really, I’m not that upset.
“You’re trying too hard. Just let it happen.”
Sam tucks my phone back in my clutch then pulls on my arm to make me stand.
Then, we decide to dance, because who needs a guy when you’ve got Beyoncé?
7
Brooke
We danced for an hour before Sam was ready to call it a night.
After I tuck Sam into her uber, I decide I’m not in the mood to go home yet. I’m not tired and I feel restless. Something that a quiet apartment will not cure. The hook-up thing didn’t happen tonight, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to indulge. My eyes catch the neon sign across the street, and I can’t help but smile at the comfort it brings. I cancel my uber that hasn’t arrived yet, then do a quick scan left and right before I do my best attempt at a quick jog in my tight dress and heels.
A moment later I’m pulling open the door and the tiny silver bell fastened to the top of the door frame announces my entrance. In contrast to the dark street, the inside of the diner is almost blinding. The lights bounce off every surface, as if I’ve just entered a Mr. Clean commercial. I nod at Bruce who is wiping off a table. He’s got the bald head and earring, just not the muscles. My heels click on the black and white tiled floor as I make my way to the counter where Carla’s familiar face smiles in greeting.
“Well look who it is.”
“Hey, La.”
I slide onto a mint green leather stool in front of her. Five years ago the diner was updated by new owners. Wanting to retire, the old owners sold their classic greasy spoon diner to an established restaurant group that turned it into a yuppie hangout, complete with a menu overhaul and shiny new interior. The only thing remaining from the diner of my childhood is Carla. And her pies. But, that’s enough.
“You done for the evening, or just getting started?” she asks.
It’s typical for me to stop in after a night out. I always get a little nostalgic when I’ve been drinking. The diner and Carla are pieces of my childhood, a time that Ellie and I spent here with our parents when life was simple and a milkshake or a piece of pie could fix anything.
“I’m here to eat my feelings.”
“That bad, huh?” Carla’s thin lips pinch together, and I can tell her signature pink lipstick has faded since the start of her shift. Her short hair is wavy, light blonde, almost white, but she’s added pink tips since I saw her last. It’s very Cyndi Lauper-esque. Carla is in her fifties, but I swear she actually looks younger now than she did when I was a kid. Maybe it’s the uniform change, denim and t-shirts replacing her vintage waitress dress. The few wrinkles around her eyes and lips are the only giveaway that she’s been here for twenty years.
“Nothing a piece of your peach pie can’t fix.”
And when I say pie, I mean the world’s best piece of pie. Marie Callender’s got nothing on Carla’s famous peach pie.
Carla’s lip twitches. I can’t tell if she thinks I’m being funny or dramatic. Her eyebrows draw in.
“Wish I knew you were coming. I would have reserved you a piece.”
I smile at that, imagining a large piece of pie with a toothpick flag stabbed into its layers, my name scrawled on the label.
“That’s sweet. I’ll just take the biggest piece you’ve got.”
