Table for Two Read Online Free PDF Page B

the
slightest movement. Her hair is in a tidy ponytail, and her lips have remained
red and glossy after several sips of water and a few spoonfuls of soup. When
she smiles, her eyes sparkle with generous patience, and I’m thinking this is
what teachers must look like when they speak with indignant, defensive,
borderline violent parents of trouble-making students—radiating sympathy
that stems not from pure and honest kindness, but from a sense of worth that
thrives on Being the Bigger Person: You are rude and crass but I am good enough to
resist stooping to your level.
    I wonder if it requires effort to
act all high and mighty, or if it really does come naturally for people who
have been blessed with better looks, better brains, or more money (in Vicky’s
case, it’s all three) than your average guy. I wonder if it ever gets tiring to
not be average.
    Vicky stands up
carefully—she is still calm and collected—and walks out the door
with a clicking and clacking so poised and prim and proper that it is hard for
me to feel sorry, or at least guilty for the things I have said tonight
(basically, I called them both irresponsible and accused her of wanting to rush
into marriage because it gives Blake little time to think things through and
therefore less chances of changing his mind about her. I also told her that if
she wants the baby so badly, she can go ahead and have it on her own; no need
to drag my best friend into her prissy cardboard life.) I wish I hadn’t said
all that, but mostly because I was wrong (factually, not morally) and not
because I regret hurting her feelings. It is hard to feel bad for someone who
seems so unaffected.  
    Blake shakes his head at me and
asks, “What the hell, Carl?” although it is not an actual question and I at
least know better than to attempt giving him an actual answer. So I just shrug
and mutter, “Sorry, man,” and he shakes his head at me one more time before he
gets up and follows his fiancée out the door. The waiter comes with Vicky’s
Greek salad and Blake’s brocolli fusilli, and I think, Yuck. I’m not gonna eat
all these vegetables.

2
     
     
     
    The first time I met
Vicky almost a year ago, I actually thought she was kind of cute. And I thought
she was flirting with me. Blake asked me to meet him at a secluded café
recommended by his younger brother Robbie. “That place makes things happen,” Robbie
had supposedly said. I didn’t know why Blake needed to visit some café for
things to happen—it seemed good things had been happening for him all his
life without him even having to try. He was just one of those people: He was
born with good looks and effortless charm and more than enough money; in
college, he got good grades and great girls, and when we started working, he
never complained about his job being stressful or demanding because like
everything else in his life, it was easy and breezy and naturally perfect.
    “Why are we here?” I asked him. He
pretended not to hear me at first, concentrating on pouring condensed milk into
his coffee, and I had to ask him twice. “Why are we here?”
    He looked up at me. “I want you to
meet someone. A girl.”
    I laughed.
“Blake, I have a girlfriend. Remember?”
    “I know you
have a girlfriend,” he said. “So do I.”
    “That’s great,” I told him. His
last real relationship was back in our college sophomore year. “Since when? Who
is she?”
    “Since last week,” he said. “Her
name’s Vicky.”
    I waited for him to add something
to make her sound impressive, like “she has amazing lips,” or “she’s a
supermodel” or even the generic “she has a great sense of humor.” But he
didn’t. I smiled my most supportive smile. “Her name’s Vicky and...?”
    He shrugged. “And she’s really
something else.”
    “I bet she is,” I said. “You’re
not introducing her to me over beer and sisig while
the rest of the guys crack dirty jokes and ogle her. And you actually seem
worried about