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| Casa La Femme |
150 Wooster Street
New York, NY
212.505.0005 |
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I am not a bad person. Let me say that first. I have shared an apartment for several years with a woman who I care about. We have shared many, many things together: survived many arguments, traversed what seems like continents.
But it's that fucking thing. That feeling. That feeling that I can only describe as a vague combination of nausea and that vital moment before orgasm. I used to have that feeling all the time, with her. Now, I can't even remember the last time I fantasized about her; about us together. Am I broken? She is undoubtedly attractive — my friends constantly remind me what a lucky bastard I am — yet I am unmoved. A flat-liner. I have no drive, no desire, and no interest in sexual activity with her at all. That fucking thing.
So I met a woman at a bar two weeks ago: long story short.
I think I'm flirting.
Okay, I know I'm flirting.
Is she hitting on me?
She's hot.
I think we're friends.
I want to do depraved and filthy things with this woman.
We're friends.
I live with my girlfriend.
Calm down.
What is that feeling?
Shit. That fucking thing.
I have to know. I have to know that it's not me, that I am not incapable of passion, of fire. Am I just with the wrong person? I have to know. I'm an asshole. I have to know. Why am I thinking about someone I just met? Is it me? Is it her? Or some poisonous chemical compound of the two of us? I have to know.
So, a friend told me about a restaurant called Casa La Femme. Most of the tables are shrouded in sheer fabric: if I called ahead, I was instructed, I could reserve a "tent" for two. Inside the tent, we get to have a unique dining experience — you are out at a restaurant, but you have your own space...it's great. And I figure it will accomplish some things: with any luck, a woman confronted with the reality of a romantic dinner will get the message. I can see her under non-bar circumstances, get to know her, and I execute this romantic dinner with no danger of being spotted. New York City, in all of it's greatness, is a tiny goddamn town. We start out with some wine from their daunting but impressive wine list: I want the bottle to say "I am interested." So, thirty-eight bucks. We decide rather than ordering a whole big entrée thing, to order a bunch of smaller appetizers: and share them. A foie gras platter, some scallops, a warm cheese plate. It' s amazing watching someone eat around a relative stranger, so conscious of perception, so dainty. I watch her mouth welcome the food gently. I watch her chew. I watch her lips press against her wine goblet.
That fucking thing. Now I know. |
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| mr. cArBon |
| September 22, 2002 |
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