My favorite song ever.
The song Todd didn’t want to be our wedding song since he’d insisted on Have I Told You Lately That I Love You, the perfect tune since that’s how he felt about me, he claimed.
A red Honda scoots out of the prime spot right in front of the restaurant. As I glide my orange Mini Cooper into the space, I mouth a silent thank you to the parking gods. Don’t get me wrong – I’m grateful for the way they look out for me and reward me with perfect little nooks for my car, but I have other daydreams too.
Yet those ones seem so far out of reach.
Mainly, I’d like to find a guy who’s not a weasel. The kind of fella who doesn’t ring you up from Sin City to call the whole thing off the day before you’re supposed to slip into a gorgeous white dress with that perfect ‘50s flair you were looking for.
“Listen, I’ve had a change of heart,” Todd said on my voice mail because I was on another call with the cake shop. It would have been a perfect wedding. We had what I thought was a perfect life. Cramped but cozy apartment in the Mission, my business was taking off like crazy and he’d helped launch it, we’d even picked out names for kids we might have some day – Charlotte for a girl and Hunter for a boy.
Then he had an epiphany at a poker table in Vegas when he met a gymnast he married instead.
The day before our wedding.
“I don’t really see myself having kids with you, or a life with you, so let’s nip this thing in the bud,” he said in his phone message.
So yeah. That kind of sucked.
But as I listen to this song, I find myself longing for something more in my life. For someone to join me for breakfast at my favorite diner in the city. Maybe a sweet kiss, a nice goodnight make-out session, and maybe some love too, the kind of love that lasts, always and forever, without leaving you in the lurch, I admit silently, as Elvis croons about taking my hand and my whole heart too.
Why do I do this? Why do I listen to this music that tortures me? I thought my almost-hubs and I were meant to be, and I was wrong, but yet as The King sings about falling in love, I can’t deny that there’s a part of me that wouldn’t mind falling in love again.
The kind where you can’t help it.
The kind that takes your breath away.
The kind that’s meant to be.
I know, I know. It’s like asking for the moon, so I’ll stop my silly daydreaming.
But, hey, at least right now I have a coveted parking spot.
I snatch my purse with its saucy cartoon of a winking pirate girl on the side and head into The Best Doughnut Shop in the City. It’s not really a doughnut shop. It used to be a doughnut shop and then the owner converted it into a diner with green upholstered vinyl seats. It’s my absolute favorite diner in the whole city and it feels a bit like my special place.
I tell the hostess I’m a party of one, and look, I’m not going to lie – it still hurts to ask for that solo table, even though Todd never once, in all our five years together, came with me to this diner. He said he didn’t care for cheap, hole-in-the-wall eateries. Snob.
But even when I came here all by myself for Sunday breakfast, at least I was still part of a two-some, even if the other someone was sleeping in. Now, it’s just me. Party of one.
I keep my chin up as the hostess guides me to one of the last remaining two-tops. The place is packed. See Todd? You don’t know what you were missing. This cheap diner knows how to bring it in the breakfast department.
I sit down and smooth out my flouncy knee-length poodle skirt. Even if I’m all by my lonesome, I still like to dress up. Fashion is like a shield to me. The clothes I wear center me, make me strong and steely with their distinctive style.
I order my usual – scrambled eggs, toast and a Diet Coke. Yep, I’m one of those people who drinks soda in the mornings. I’m sure I should kick the habit for many reasons, including the fact that Todd was my Diet Coke partner in crime, and we both downed the carbonated beverage morning, noon and night. But I refuse to let the memory of what we shared ruin my favorite drink.
One minute later the waitress brings me a glass that’s fizzing just the right amount. I thank her and take a drink, then reach for my laptop from my bag. I might as well work on my fashion blog as I wait for the food. As I flip open the computer, the waitress guides a gorgeous young redhead over to the two-top next to me. I scan her outfit first. The gal is wearing sparkling white running shoes with a pink swirly stripe, black workout pants and a color-coordinated snug workout top. There’s something about her face though that’s eerily familiar. Like I’ve seen her somewhere, but I can’t place it.
She flashes me a warm smile. “Hi,” she says.
“Hey.”
“This placed is jammed today.”
“It’s like this every Sunday. The food is amazing.”
“I’ve heard great things about it. I’m so excited to finally try it.”
Okay, maybe I won’t need the laptop. Maybe this gal and I will chat for the next thirty minutes, seeing as she’s mighty friendly. I wouldn’t mind the company, to tell the truth. It beats eating over a keyboard. “You will not be disappointed. Everything’s good.”
“My husband said he’s been wanting to go to this place for the longest time. He’s just out parking the car,” she says and tips her forehead to the door.
I half expected her to say her dad was going to join her because she looks like a teenager. But maybe she was a teenage bride. “Well, both of you will love it then. I’m a total regular. A devotee, as they say.” I add in a silly little affected accent that makes her laugh.
“What do you recommend?”
“Anything. Except for hard-boiled eggs, because they’re totally gross.”
“Oh god, yes. They’re like the most disgusting food ever.”
I lean closer and say in a conspiratorial whisper. “My ex used to love them. I couldn’t even be in the house when he ate hard-boiled eggs.”
“You want to hear something funny? My husband used to love them too. But I laid down the law. No hard-boiled eggs ever in my house. I cured him of his hard-boiled egg addiction like that.” She snaps her fingers.
I hold up a hand to high five her. “You deserve major points.”
“Oh, look. There he is,” she says, and when I turn to follow her gaze, it’s as if I’ve had a pair of cleats jammed into my belly, and I don’t even play softball. But I bet this is what it feels like when the batter slides into home and you’re the catcher who’s not wearing a chest protector.