Experiment

And it's this look she gives me, this look of How did this happen, and not even that but How could you, how could you let this happen. And that's the thing that really gets to me, the presumption, the accusation, that for whatever reasons in her head, reasons that make total sense to her, somehow this is all my fault. Doing. A plan. Laid out before me in clear and printed blue.

I explain to her how I see it, how it is, but it's a restaurant and there are people about which of course always sets me on a cautious edge. Careful not to raise a voice or finger, careful not to let the corners of my mouth do what they do. It's a simple explanation: They misplaced it. Or they did whatever it is they do when reservations are made and then not there when you arrive. Misplaced, lost, deleted, erased, just plain not written down because he couldn't find a pen. But everything's done on computers these days. And that's the problem.

It's not that we won't eat for a while. It's not that she doesn't believe me. She just can't stand to be watched like that, studied by these people. Look at her, look at them, pretending to be something they're not. This isn't dinner, it's a social experiment, and if you're not part of the solution then you're part of the problem and tonight I'm part of the problem. And that's all she can see, all she wants to see. And how could anyone want that?