Carly Slater
This is my last meal. I only remember one other than what sits here before me. It was a Thursday and the restaurant was busy. Wait staff were running here and there, attending to the hungry patrons. Entering behind a noisy party of ten, I asked the waitress to seat me by the window that overlooked the downstairs terrace. From there I could see the other diners enjoying the mild evening, crowded among the palm trees and twinkling lights. The murmur of conversation rose up to meet me.
My wife smiled and reached across the table. I couldn’t see his face but I recognised him all the same. She looked at him and smiled, stroking his hand affectionately. She lied the first time I asked about him. ‘He’s just a friend’ she had said, her eyes fixed on the ground. Someone she worked with. She admitted she was in love with him when she discovered I had followed her. She was leaving to start over with him.
We used to come to this restaurant all the time. It was our favourite place to eat when we were dating. We would sit on the terrace, oblivious to the noisy diners beside us. We were in love and only noticed each other. Even after we were married we continued to dine here. We would always try new places as they opened up, but they were never quite the same as this place. Our place. Now she was here with him.
It’s not the first time I had eaten here alone, watching, taking everything in. He ordered the same thing each time; natural oysters to start. He would always feed one to her. Smiling, she would lick the salt brine of the mollusc from his fingers before he leaned in to kiss her salted lips. His main of chateaubriand beef with béarnaise sauce and drunken potatoes would prompt her to lean over and pick up one of the warm potatoes, popping it into her mouth with a familiarity I recognised.
While I sat watching them eating oysters and drinking Mourvèdre, I ordered my usual bottle of Chablis and toasted ravioli. I sat drinking slowly. When the meal came I pushed the pieces around the plate with my fork. My wife used to say it would give me a heart attack, eating the crumbed deep-fried pockets of ravioli. She wanted me around to help look after our grandchildren when the time came, she’d say, not left alone because her husband had died from eating too many fried foods. Ironic really, considering the path she had set me on.
The waitress was visibly uncomfortable as she approached the table to refill my glass. ‘How is the ravioli tonight sir? Would you like me to package it up for you?’ she asked, forcing a smile. She wanted me to leave. She was sick of me coming in alone, ordering the same thing and not eating it. Not even the large tip I always left appeased her.
‘It’s fine, thank you,’ I had said without looking up. She left the bottle at the table, ensuring her return to attend to my empty glass wasn’t needed. I watched her whispering to the other waitress with a look of irritation and pity. I didn’t usually care what the other diners thought of me, a middle-aged man, unshaven in a creased stained shirt, always alone. I never bothered to bring a book or any other type of prop. I was there for only one reason: to watch.
By then I was getting to know their routine. Thursday nights were always spent at the restaurant, our restaurant. Fridays he worked from home and she often did the same, having long breakfasts on his patio overlooking the pool. High brick fences surround his house and a tall timber gate screens the long pebbled drive. The house is set well off the street in a quiet cul-de-sac on the outskirts of town. Unless you climb the fence that runs along the side of the driveway, you can’t see anything from the street.
I thought my wife and I would be coming here forever. We used to watch birthdays and anniversaries take place at the tables next to us and smile, imagining it to be us one day. We would look knowingly across the table at each other, giggling like teenagers, excited about our future. I started noticing a difference after I was promoted. I was working longer hours and was tired and bad-tempered by the time I had negotiated the traffic on the long drive home. I was missing more and more dinners and our usual night out at the restaurant was almost non-existent. At first, she would yell and cry, but after awhile she just seemed to accept it. I thought things were starting to settle down until I noticed a text from him one morning while she was showering. The message itself was generic but it stirred something inside me. I asked her about him and, getting nothing but vague answers, I decided to follow her one night. She met him here. It became a habit. Every Thursday I found myself sitting at the same table, watching. I had recently been let go at work, but I didn’t care. It allowed me more time to make plans of my own.
This night I watched him call for the bill and I quickly did the same. Wiping my mouth with the stiff linen napkin, I placed some gold coins on the table and slipped out the door. He put her jacket on for her, using it to pull her in close to his chest, kissing the top of her head. I was already across the street waiting when they appeared at the door. They turned right and headed down the side street that ran beside the restaurant. It was dark but I could hear their voices clearly. They didn’t hear me approach.
As the priest gets up to leave, the guard arrives to take my order. ‘So what’ll it be? Make it good boy, it’s gonna be your last,’ he says with a smirk.
‘I want a plate of oysters, chateaubriand beef with béarnaise sauce and drunken potatoes, and a bottle of Mourvèdre.’