Just not honest enough to actually come out and say that I want him. That would be a bridge too far.
Our meals arrive with few airs and graces, quite the contrast to last night’s highly professional staff. I watch him closely, but Fernando doesn’t seem to be fazed at all by this level of service. I suppose I might have judged him a bit unfairly, thinking that he wouldn’t be used to the normal kind of places where people come to eat. People like me, anyway. I guess he's not a snob or anything like that. I don't even know how much money he makes, and he was a little cagey about his business when it came up before. When he says he eats there all the time, maybe it was an exaggeration.
But that just makes me feel bad again about the fact that I may have spent too much money on my dish. I should really stop dwelling on it.
I distract myself with a bite of my paella, which turns out to be just as delicious as I thought it might be from the way it looked. “Wow,” I exclaim, raising my eyebrows as I look at Fernando. “This is really good!”
“Did you think I would bring you somewhere where the food was terrible?” he says with a smile.
“So, you've been here before?” I ask eager, to get some more information about him any way I can.
“Oh, yes,” he says, grinning. “Did you think that I only eat in places like the restaurant from last night?”
I blush, unable to hide the fact that this really is what I was thinking. How did he see through me like that? And if he can see that, what else can he see?
“How is your burger?” I ask, wanting to change the topic as soon as possible. If we don't talk about it anymore, then I might not have the fact that I really want him written all over my face, and then it might not get awkward.
“It's very good,” he says, lifting it in both hands to take another bite. I can't help but watch him as he chews, his powerful jaw working up and down, his big hands holding the burger carefully. It makes me think about those hands on me, and I have to swallow hard and concentrate on my food for a while.
“What’s the old town like these days?” he asks, perhaps not picking up on the tension like I was afraid he would. I’m about to question how I would know better than him when I realize which town he means, my hometown, where he used to live as well before moving back to Spain.
“There have been a few changes recently,” I tell him, and at his interested nod, I launch into an explanation of all the new things and changes that have taken place since he left, new malls built and old places shut down, and everything else that I can think of.
That takes away a lot of the nerves I had suddenly built up, and before I know it we’re talking about everything under the sun, and my plate is clear. I settle back in my chair as Fernando finishes the glass of wine he ordered, and I feel content. If I could do this every evening for the rest of my life, I don’t think there is much else that I could possibly want.
“Alright,” Fernando says, at last. “We should free up the table. I’m going to the bathroom, and afterward, we should get out of here.”
“Sure,” I agree, though I feel my heart sinking in my chest. I don’t want to leave. I want to stay here with him. But I guess it’s not an option. You can’t stay still forever, no matter how good the moment may feel.
I watch him make his way through the crowded restaurant to the other end of the room, where a door leads to the bathrooms. I shouldn’t watch him, I realize, jerking my eyes away and try to take in the rest of the place instead.
Since evening fell, the restaurant has steadily been building up with a different kind of crowd, I realize. They are still mostly tourists, by the looks of things, but now they’re drunker, and the girls are wearing shorter skirts. It’s louder, and people are even singing along to the music playing in the background from time to time.
Looking around, I see that most people have finished eating and are sitting down with just alcoholic drinks in front of them. I guess that this place changes when the night crowd comes in. Which makes it just as well that we’re leaving, I suppose. Even if we stayed, it wouldn’t be the same.
“Has he left you on your own, darlin’?”
I look over, startled, to realize that someone at the next table over is talking to me. He’s maybe around my age or a little older and judging by his accent, I’m guessing he’s from Texas. He’s got a bottle of beer clutched in one hand, and by the slightly slurred edges of his words and his red cheeks, I’m also guessing that he’s had more than one already.