Not a Flirt

Or is it a flirt?

Just so we’re clear, I didn’t start it. Neither did he. I’m not even sure what “it” was. But nothing happened, nothing’s going to, not now, not later, not in this lifetime, not in another. Besides, my loving husband (who’s a real doll) reads my Substack, okay?

And yet, I feel compelled to reexamine the situation.

The whole thing begins the way such things often do—in a crowded restaurant. I’d suggested eating in my friend’s neck of the ’burbs, but she has an appointment in mine, so here I am. Biding my time at table #7, watching the waiters waltz between tables, basking like a happy cat in a sunbeam warm enough that I remove my scarf. My friend arrives, and we get down to the business at hand. Lunch.

Our waiter stops by to take our orders.

“Good morning,” he says, with a drop-dead-gorgeous Spanish accent reminiscent of Javier Bardem. It’s that gorgeous.

The ordering proceeds as ordering does—until the very end. Before our waiter leaves, I look up one last time to thank him. His eyebrows crinkle for a moment in a way that makes me wonder, despite the fact I haven’t eaten yet, if I’ve got something stuck in my teeth. But the moment passes, his face relaxes, he smiles. And away he waltzes. More of a samba, perhaps. Or a merengue? Or—

“Ooooooh,” my friend says in a voice usually found in middle school lunchrooms and slumber parties. “I think Alejandro likes you!” I turn back to her, and she gives me a wink and an eyebrow wiggle. Three eyebrow wiggles, actually.

“Oh, really?” I say. “How do you even know his name?”

“I don’t,” she replies, “but with that beautiful accent, he just exudes an Alejandro vibe, doesn’t he?”

After three more eyebrow wiggles, two winks, and a head nod in Alejandro’s direction, I feel obligated to assess the situation further, so I turn in my chair. Dark-yet-twinkling eyes, tasteful tattoo on his right bicep, close-shaved beard.... I’m busy assessing when unfortunately, (1) Alejandro looks in my direction, and really unfortunately, (2) he sees me looking in his.

And really, really unfortunately, I blush. Not some little “Is it me or is it warm in here?” blush. A full-on, face-furnace of a blush that could flambé a dessert. The kind of blush that makes me glad there’s a fire station up the block. The kind of blush that—

Good Lord, someone call 911, because a woman at Table 7 just spontaneously combusted!

I can’t remember the last time I blushed like this. For a moment, I wonder if I’m having a hot flash, but it’s been years, and they don’t come back once they’re gone. (Seriously, they don’t, do they?) I have no idea why it’s happening, other than the absurdity of this whole made-up situation.

I’ve got zero interest in flirting with Alejandro (probably not his actual name), but once the blush starts, I’m toast—and it doesn’t exactly help that my friend winks at me every time the subject in question stops by the table to see if I/we need anything. Every time she winks, I blush again. I smile at her even though I’m trying to frown. I try to give her a serious look but I giggle. For a moment, it’s entirely possible I’m flirting with her instead of him. Forgive me, Alejandro!

Is this a flirt? This isn’t a flirt, is it? It’s a goof, right?

Whatever it is, we’ve reached a point where the narrative’s acquired a life of its own.

Alejandro comes by to “refill our water glasses.” But as he refills hers, he can’t take his eyes off of me. Maybe it is a flirt? Or is he just trying to show me he’s really good at pouring water? He’s really good, by the way. He doesn’t spill a drop.

Alejandro comes back three times to see if I need more coffee. I don’t, but the third time, I hold out my mug. I just can’t help myself.

As we finish our meal, he stops by again and asks me/us if I/we want to see the dessert menu. We both shake our heads. But it is cold outside, and we’ve still got time, so we ask Alejandro (by now, it should be his name, even if it isn’t) if we could just split a bowl of berries. Actually, it’s my friend who asks, but Alejandro looks at me.

“I can bring you a side of fresh fruit if you’d like,” he says, holding my gaze.

“Yes, please,” I respond, holding his. (Still not a flirt!)

Alejandro returns, cradling a side order of fruit like it’s an $8.95 piece of blackout cake (the kind you find in the good diners—baked on the premises). He places it on the table, assesses it, then picks it up again.

“Let me see if I can get you a little more.”

When the meal ends, Alejandro brings us our check. At the top, just under the name of the restaurant, is his name. Alejandro, it turns out, goes by “Mateo.”

That evening, my husband and I take my in-laws to dinner. Guess where? And guess who our waiter is?

I text my lunch companion. “Guess who our waiter is?”

She “hearts” my text. And sends me a laughing emoji. And one of those emojis with hearts for eyes. And a message: “Hi, Mateo!”

When he sees me, Mateo’s eyes widen—half surprised, half laughing, half smiling. (Note to self—can eyes be big enough for three halves?) His mouth says, “Nice to see you again.” But am I wrong, or are his eyes purring, “You’re back.”

My husband and I share an appetizer (a nice flatbread) and a main (stuffed pork chop with a balsamic reduction). It’s a one-hundred-percent ambiguity-free order. Nothing says, “I’m honestly not flirting with you, Mateo!” more than sharing a nice flatbread and a stuffed pork chop with a date. I mean a husband. I mean my husband.

As my second (and blessedly blush-free) meal with Mateo comes to an end, I give him a smile that I hope conveys we’re both in on what’s become a running joke.

“See you tomorrow?” I ask.

He smiles back, his eyes confirming All is Good.

But All is Not Good. Back home, as I unwrap my scarf for the fourth time today, I glance in the mirror. It’s been years since I’ve worn this scarf, and now I remember why. This scarf, aka the “Earring Slayer,” loves to push earrings out of my ears. And it’s struck again. I’m wearing one earring, but the other? It’s not in my ear. It’s not in the house. It’s not in the car. And—I can’t believe I’m saying this—there’s only one other place I’ve been today.

The next morning, I’m back at the restaurant. I check with the hostess, who sends me to the bar. Where, of course, Mateo awaits.

“I don’t know if you remember me,” I say, even though I spent over three hours here yesterday, and it’s barely been twelve hours since I left.

“I remember you,” Mateo says. “You spent over three hours here yesterday, and it’s barely been twelve hours since you left.”

I swear, Mateo can read my mind!

“Did anyone find a missing earring at table 7 or 8?” I ask. “Anything?”

“Ahh,” Mateo responds, “I was so curious yesterday to see you were wearing just one.” Which may explain why Mateo was staring at me yesterday. But in no way explains to Mateo why I was staring at him.

Now we come to the worst of it. Tables 7 and 8 are occupied, so I can’t look for the earring. I have to leave my name and number. With Mateo. As if that isn’t the most pathetic excuse ever to give my name and number to someone with whom I absolutely-am-not-and-never-was flirting. Which is the truth. Which, of course, doesn’t look at all like the truth. Mateo takes my number like it’s the third number he’s taken today. And it’s only 10:30.

It’s been four days and Mateo still hasn’t called. Not even about the earring. He’s probably too busy refreshing someone else’s coffee by now. I just know this would never happen with Alejandro….