brunch

Diners are where I get my sustenance, both physical and otherwise. Eros is one of my favorites. The vinyl seats squeal as you slide in, as if to welcome you. At night the place glows with an amber light no longer approved by decorators. Everything is brown, or gold, except for the walls which are mosaiced with murals out of Greek history books. The menu is a dozen pages long, but the service is what makes it exceptional. They have a spice and delicacy that their food does not.

They care for the stooped, grayed woman curving over a bowl of soup at the counter. They remember when babies have grown, and chide me for my absence. They let me wait on a Saturday morning, accepting my refusal to sit in the back, on rickety tables pushed too closely together for comfort. They give me permission to stand in repose as families bustle around me. Waiting for a window booth that provides some of the best people watching in the city.

Each time I pass they wave, filling my belly with a joy warm as their crappy coffee. Today I'm here listening to the cacophonic symphony of Saturday brunch. The clatter of china against china, and slide of plate on counter. I taste coffee, bitter and milky-sweet, before we are even seated.

I resist the impulse to stare at Dave and let my eyes glaze over in fantasy. Maybe it's the shirt he's wearing, but I'm betting it's the free floating lust that has followed me like Eeyore's little black rain cloud.

I met Steven a few weeks ago. Immediately he treated me as if we'd grown up braiding each other's hair and talking about boys. His warmth and affection was like a blanket, one that I couldn't quite trust wasn't infected with smallpox. Mind you, that is my fear talking, not any menace on his part.

When we are (quickly) seated I'm next to Meg, who is all sharp angles and beauty. Meg, who I knew would be my friend when I heard her talk about putting on a full face of makeup and looking in the mirror asking herself what she was doing.

We order, cups of tea for Dave and Meg, and a combined bounty of pancakes, turkey bacon, and eggs over easy for Steven and me. Dave is talking about the path of dating that's let up to his current girlfriend,

"The only thing my bad relationships had in common was me"

See, I've heard that clever remark before. In my case its wisdom falls on deaf ears. I mention that today is my last day of match.com membership.

"Oh yeah, I didn't get anything out of online dating" says Dave

"I met my boyfriend online," replies Stephen "I thought you'd broken up"

"Still met him online" he counters

We go from choosing partners, to first date etiquette, to the place where all conversations go if they go long enough: sex.

"How many dates are you supposed to wait before you sleep with someone?"

"I think it's three," I say "sounds like a good number."

"I've noticed a lot of gay men I know don't really wait to have sex"

I'm not sure if he is asking a question or expressing an opinion but either way Dave is doing so cautiously. Simon replies,

"Generally"

"I know a lot of women who don't wait either," I point out

"Well" Stephen's voice has an undercurrent of amusement "I think you have a little gay man in you"

I raise my eyebrows and deadpan

"Is he paying rent?"