I can only imagine. Every now and then I dream of it happening. Maybe tonight is the night. I hope this is the moment in time when it will finally happen. I’m giddy with excitement because it will be my first time. I can conjure up every minute detail of it. The pure, unadulterated pleasure of it unfolds in my mind…
SCENE: A BUSY RESTAURANT
CAST OF CHARACTERS: ME AND MY POLICE HUSBAND
We walk in and the hostess leads us to a booth in the middle of the restaurant. She politely asks, “Is this okay?” I quickly answer, “Yes, it’s great!” I sit down facing the front of the restaurant and he sits across from me because…well, because it’s just plain freaky when a couple sits next to each other in a booth when no one else is joining them for dinner. He looks lovingly, longingly, lustfully into my eyes. I smile, but I’m distracted. My eyes dart around the room. I’m visually drinking in my surroundings. I can see it all. This is better than I imagined, if that’s even possible!
I notice there are several televisions dangling from the ceiling and they are all directly in my line of sight. One is tuned to HGTV ESPN, one to Food Network Fox Sports Network, one to Entertainment Tonight Sports Tonight. I glance from one to the next and back again. My guy catches my eye once more and I see he is still intently gazing into the windows of my soul like an astronomer ogling the Milky Way. It’s true. He only has eyes for me.
I cast my gaze around room. I identify the waitress. I recognize a friend. I gawk at a man dressed like a woman. I stare at guy with the Bluetooth thingy in his ear who is talking too loudly. I catch a glimpse of the teenagers holding hands across from us. I fabricate a story about the old lady sitting next to us. I spy with my little eye….every. single. thing. going on in this restaurant.
Yes….that’s the scene that plays out in my mind every time we go out to eat. I imagine what it would be like to sit in the middle of a restaurant instead of the booth in the far back corner. I fantasize about facing the door. I ponder who is behind me. I wonder if anyone I know is here. I keep turning around to see who he is staring at (except when he says, “Don’t turn around.”)
I look lovingly, longingly, lustfully into his eyes as they dart around the room, visually drinking in our surroundings, making mental notes about who just came in, scoping out his vantage point. And I know I will always sit with my back to door because he can’t.