I say, “I’ll have an iced tea and a water”.
Tila’s offers the best carne asada in the city, but the service is lousy. So I always get two drinks. Without the second drink, you’ll spend half your meal thirsty. I hate that.
The waiter looks to Derek, bored. He orders a Diet Coke, as does Tom. Jessica asks if they have lemonade. They do. She hesitates, then orders a Diet Coke as well.
I don’t warn any of them about the need for a second drink. They will look longingly at my water when their glasses are dry and the waiter is nowhere to be found.
It used to be that you’d automatically get water, without having to ask. Now only the best joints bring it out as a matter of course. Guess they don’t want to wash the glasses if you’re not going to use them.
Jessica has a job offer at King & Spalding. She asked us to lunch to discuss it. What she wants is for us to talk her into declining the offer, talk her into staying with us at the firm.
None of us are giving her what she wants.
“You’ve given them fair warning,” Derek is saying. “They screwed you on your base, and they screwed you on your bonus. Fuck ‘em.”
“Plus, you’re still dealing with Kuhn on a daily basis,” adds Tom. “Tracey was supposed to handle that and she hasn’t done shit. It’s been over three weeks.”
The salsa at Tila’s is piping hot, like soup. It’s the only place I’ve had it served that way. Don’t know why, but it makes a difference – makes it tasty.
Tom is eating chips. He puts them down fast, no drinks. I always need to drink.
In truth, I don’t want her to go. None of us do. But it’s not for her. It’s for us. We all love her in a way.
“The hiring partner asked me why I wanted to leave. I told them that Bracewell wasn’t giving me enough responsibility.” She laughs as she says it, like she’s not sure she can handle more responsibility.
“That’s a good answer,” says Tom, pointing a strong finger at her. Then he grabs the last chip and soaks it in the salsa, shoving it in his mouth as if to punctuate his thought. “Damn these things are good! Excuse me, can we have some more chips please?” Tom holds up the basket too quickly, and the wax paper floats out of it and drifts to the floor below. “And make sure there are extra of those plantain things in this one.”
The basket is taken. It is long in returning.
Our drinks still haven’t arrived. I was foolish to eat the damn salsa before the drinks arrived, and now I’m dying.
Somehow, I convince myself that the conversation is making me more thirsty. Why won’t they shut up? Can’t they see I’m parched?
“What’s their compensation scheme?” asks Derek. “Isn’t it tied to billables?”
She answers him. I look around for the waiter. He was just here, wasn’t he? Why did Tom have to distract him with the chips? He might have brought our drinks by now.
Jessica is younger than us. She has earrings running all the way up her ear, and she just got contacts. She is sitting directly across from me. She has noticed my quiet.
She narrows her eyes, looking at me. She senses that this is boring me. She is surely hurt by my detachment in the face of what is a huge decision for her.
I need to respond to her look. What do I say? Make a joke? “I’m dying over here,” I say, clutching my throat in mock agony. I stand, walk over to the bar. “I need a water.” The bartender is vaguely irritated. He grabs a glass and jams it into the ice. He fills it with clear, clear water. He barely hands it to me before it is in my throat, falling down into my hollow middle.
With the glass raised to my lips, the ice gives way and the cubes fall all at once onto my nose and cheeks. The ice still resting on my face, I breathe out through my nose and watch the glass fog over.
Since I’m up, I might as well go piss. I set the glass back down on the bar, wondering briefly if I should tip the bartender for ice water.
The restroom is clean. Good.
I piss. I don’t shake well enough, and a few drops fall down one of the legs of my suit.
I linger in front of the mirror. I make a kissy face. I make a mean face. To nobody at all, I say “you want some of this motherfucker?”
I pull my lower lip down, examine the white canker sore on my gum. I run water over my hands and splash a bit of it up onto my face.
My eyes become slits as I imagine Jessica on her knees in front of me, my hands in her hair, the wet tile soaking her suit pants. What to say if someone walked in? Would I gasp and scramble to cover up, red-faced. Or would I be cool about it, give them a mean look and tell them to get lost?
I dry my hands. I smooth my hair. I have a small patch of grey now, right up front. My dad dyes his hair to avoid such grey. I am embarrassed by his vanity.
I return to the table. My drinks have arrived.