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The Thanks I Get (continued from preceding page)
“And ironically those forgettable nights are the nights I remember most.” He went for broke. “Miss actually. Miss the most.”
“Oh Nathan,” Kat said, as if he’d just soiled himself.
“Did you order the pumpkin lamb with him?” Nathan demanded, referencing one of their pricier dishes. “Did you order off the menu with him?!”
Nathan took great pride not only in his curated res- taurant choices but his ample research to find out what, if any, off the menu bounty could be ordered with a stealth smirk.
“What? What are you talking about? Actually it doesn’t matter. You should just go.”
Nathan knew he should leave too but he was also aware of the adrenaline that would break over him the moment he walked outside, that the rest of his evening (week. month even!) consisted of replaying this ad nauseam, that he had nothing but an air- less studio apartment and insomnia ahead. He just needed a little win to propel him towards the door with some dignity. Why couldn’t she just admit that he introduced her to this place?
~
Nathan felt like the city was littered with exes who had poached bits and pieces of him to smuggle into their next relationship. He thought of the time he
saw Paula at a Ken Loach movie, at the repertory theatre he’d introduced her to. Her favorite movie was Stepbrothers when he met her, and there she was nestling her face into the crook of her date’s shoulder, pretending not to see him pass by. From half a dozen cineastes back, he overheard the phrase ‘kitchen sink realism” and clenched his fists; she was crib-noting him! There was Susan whose Facebook avatar was the Art Garfunkel album he bought her and Charlene who he’d suggested a Winona Ryder in Girl, Interrupt- ed pixie cut to, skyrocketing her stock. He was like a finishing school, a culturally appropriated giving tree, a Johnny Appleseed of niche tastes— an Afrobeat playlist here, obscure German novella or DIY podcast recommendation there—across a strata of soured relationships.
Of course he would be fine with it, happy even, if there was a modicum of acknowledgement. But instead bump-in’s like this were met with averted looks or tight smiles as if he was on the level of an adult orthodonture or a tribal tattoo. His exes didn’t want to footnote him, they wanted him expunged like a war era statue from
the losing side, toppled and melted for scrap. It hurt when they unfollowed him on social media or ignored his holiday texts. He was baffled by other’s insistence on the finality of break-ups; the all or nothing of it seemed so puerile. He couldn’t just turn it off or on like that—he was dubious of what he saw as a woman’s ability to repurpose love as resentment. Nathan was a content dweller in the grey zone, a proponent of back sliding and not labeling. To him there was something profoundly Zen in not defining the thing, just letting it be. It was a purposefully fuzzy belief system he occa- sionally tried to proselytize after a few drinks, and to no avail. He’d cop to the fact that he’d wrung his hands or dragged feet during many a relationship, but didn’t it say something that he still remembered every one
of his exes’ birthdays? In the great race to love, Nathan considered himself a thoughtful tortoise in a world of commitment-rushing rabbits. But all his philosophies would have gladly been chucked out the window for another chance with Kat.
Nathan now cross examined her. “Where else did you bring him?” How deep did her restaurant infidelity go? “The taco truck on sixth!? Ramen by Roman?! Late night pho at Pattaya Moon!?”
“Dude.”
It was “the man” speaking again. This fucking Tony. “I
brought her here.”
Nathan pressed his chin into his neck and looked down on him, unblinking. This look, Nathan hoped, conveyed that he thought Tony was as basic as an Olive Garden early bird special.
“The hospital I do my residency at is right down the block. Good Samaritan. This place has been a god- send for me for years.” The man said matter-of-factly, and turned to Kat. “I practically lived on the Boat noodles through my residency.”
Just then the waitress pushed by Nathan to deliver a plate of spring rolls.
“Chef’s spring rolls.” She patted the man’s shoulder.
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