Just Like I Like

He opens the door, finds my table and sits down. He's late and we both know it but we skip tat part and just say hi. "Have you ordered?" he asks and I say yes. "The Benedict?" he asks, which I don't answer because he should know I know. Right on cue our waitress brings us two Bloody Marys, flips our cups over and pours black coffee up to the brim. She asks if there's anything else, he takes a sip of the Bloody. "It's not goddamn hot enough." She's taken aback, naturally, and says she'll bring some hot sauce. "Tabasco." There is no hot sauce other than Tabasco.

We both drink our coffee. Mine tastes just fine to me, but the conversation he'd start if I drunk it isn't worth getting into, so I wait for the condiment. The coffee is good, strong, and I'm little surprised to see his face agree. He looks around and studies the decor. A fireplace that doesn't work, or isn't working; framed black and white pictures of turn-of-the-century husbands and wives; the odd animal statue; maroon, tarnished brass, earthiness. Warmth, warmth from the heat, warmth from the coffee, from the proximity of strangers and the Duke's saxophone section.  "I don't know why you picked this place," he says. The waitress returns with our Tabasco, he splashes it liberally in his glass and I mimic. "Cheers," he says, and drinks half.

That's all for a minute. He reads the back of the Tabasco label, which he must know by heart by now. He sips from both his glass and mug. I ask him how things are. "Things? What things?" Just life in general, I guess. "Hell. Fine. Life is a series of... difficulties." It's not the word I thought he'd choose, but it is not surprising. "I'm taking it as it comes, like I always do." I ask him if anything's come lately. "I'm not dating that bitch from down the street anymore, if that's what you're asking."

Our plates mercifully arrive. Eggs Benedict and chocolate chip pancakes with a side of bacon. I spread my metal cup of butter on top and between each flapjack before drowning it in syrup. "Thought you were eating healthier," he says. I mentioned this last month at breakfast, and it was true at the time. My mouth is full. "But I guess you can do what you want." He cuts into his saucy egg breakfast and takes a large forkful. Steam seeps from the place with the missing piece, he opens his mouth to help cool the food because his bites are always too big. And some things are just too hot, I think, and want to say so, so badly. My chips are melty, my bacon is floppy just like I like.

"She said I was too pessimistic. Too eager to look at the wrong side of things." I take a long drink from my Bloody and don't say a word. He laughs a little. "Well, sure. She knew that, though, going in. Wasn't like we were strangers or anything. Strangers, hell, that I could understand. If we hadn't known each other years. Then, maybe." He drinks his Mary up and eats another bite of Benedict, opens his mouth again. I see more steam. "And some things are just too hot," he says to himself. I can't help but smile, I can't help it, and I dunk my bacon in my syrup just like I used to.

The waitress swoops by with coffee refills, asks us how everything is. I can tell she wants to get in there and get out. He takes her free hand, I can see him squeezing it. "Delicious," he says. "Just delicious." She smiles, genuine, and leaves us to our meal. I reach across and take some of his hash browns. I'm feeling adventurous. He grabs a piece of my bacon, picks up the syrup bottle and pours the stuff straight on it. It runs off, some on his fingers, some on his eggs. "See, if this were cooked properly it would stay on there." He eats it, licks his fingers, dips them in his water glass. I take the syrup bottle from him. My problem is I always pour too much syrup on right away. Then the pancakes soak it all up. And before you know it I'm pouring the syrup all over them again.