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The fish is really good, he thought as he slid another forkful into his mouth. Moist, firm, flaky; just perfect.
Attractively served, too, with steamed vegetables and garlic potatoes piped into the shape of a flower. He remembered helping his mother make cookies, piping them into much smaller versions of that flower shape. Butter cookies.
And the salad was fresh and crisp, made with interesting lettuces, and the bread was artisan. Really good. He'd come back to this restaurant.
He carefully removed the skeleton from the fish, setting it on the bread plate. Jim had taught him to bone trout, years ago, while they were camping; he always refused, now, when the waiter asked if he'd like his fish boned.
Sitting around a campfire, Jim, of course, had nibbled the flesh from the fish's backbone, like eating corn on the cob, whereas he used a fork and knife. But the result was the same, gleaming on the small plate. A small success, a small pleasure.
The waiter refilled his water glass unnecessarily, then stepped back to hover attentively. An attractive young man. He glanced at him surreptitiously. Long hair for men was popular again; this man had his pulled back into a shoulder-length wavy tail.
He preferred them tall and rangy with buzz cuts, but they so rarely worked as waiters.
The skin of the trout glistened iridescently on his plate. He poked at it with his fork. He wasn't sure why he ate trout. All those little bones, the bother of the skin. But it was really good here.
He took a sip of wine. Red, despite the fact he was eating fish. He despised slavery to fashion, and preferred a hearty red. He gestured to the waiter for another glass, and the young man obediently stepped away.
He sat back, wiping his mouth. Looked around the restaurant. His first time here and he thought he'd be back. He sniffed. Smelled good, too. Few customers, but it was a Tuesday night, the slowest night for restaurants. He preferred Tuesdays. Easier to focus on the food, not be distracted by the people around him.
That couple, for example. Now they'd caught his attention. That was unfortunate. He finished his wine and waited for the young man to return with another glass. Perhaps he should have ordered a half-bottle.
Two men, talking quietly but animatedly. Looking directly into each other's eyes, laughing. He liked watching people laugh, the way their eyes would crinkle at the corners, the sudden flash of teeth and tongue.
Abruptly the waiter returned, exchanging wine glasses. He nodded his thanks and took another sip. He'd ordered a cabernet tonight, quite good.
He began to eat his potatoes. They were prettier than they tasted, but not bad. Just a little dry.
His eyes returned to the couple. One had his head down, listening intently, while the other spoke almost urgently to him. The one speaking stared at the listener, perhaps willing him to meet his eyes. He scooted a few inches closer in the booth.
Suddenly, he stopped speaking, The other man remained silent, studying with apparent fascination the centerpiece. Then he slowly raised his head and straightened his shoulders. He was significantly taller than the other man, and as he sat up, the speaker's head lifted, until their eyes met.
For a long moment, the two men stared at each other. Then the taller man swallowed, and slowly put out his hand. The other man smiled, a brilliant smile of enormous happiness, and took his hand. After a few seconds, they dropped their hands behind the table, but continued to smile at each other. Then their waiter disturbed them, their heads whipping toward her with surprise.
He returned his attention to his nearly-empty plate, idly wondering what had just happened. Still observing, he thought. Not much left to do.
His own waiter returned with the dessert menu, but he waved him away, wanting only the check and an opportunity to go home. At last, bill signed, credit card tucked back into his wallet, he struggled to his feet, using his cane to lever himself upright, and then started the long walk to the door.
The waiter had arranged for a cab, but the street was still empty. He stood on the sidewalk, smelling the restaurant, garbage, oil, and geraniums. There were geraniums in the restaurant's window boxes. They appeared black in the window's glow.
Through that window, he could see the two men. Still smiling at each other, looking very satisfied. As if they'd reached some agreement, some new stage in their life. One that pleased them both.
Leaning heavily on his cane, he looked up at the sky. Not much to see in the city, not that he could see well anyway. No moon. A few of the more brilliant stars. Nothing like the nights he'd spent camping with Jim, frying freshly-caught trout for their dinner. Jim teaching him how to bone a trout, the squaw bread he'd made baking in the coals.
The cab arrived, the driver a young woman with a shaved head and a Japanese kanji tattooed onto her scalp. Peace, he thought it meant, and smiled at her. She helped him into the back seat, where he collapsed and rested his head back. The cab smelled of cigarette smoke, and he recalled the smell of campfire smoke, how it would permeate his and Jim's clothing.
He rolled his head to one side and watched the street lights slip past the passenger window as she drove him away. Like lights on water. Like life itself. Slipping by, slipping past, slipping away. Yet he remained to observe.
And who will watch the watcher, he idly wondered as his eyes closed against the meaningless semaphoring lights. He remembered the two men in the restaurant, how they'd stared at each other. Observed each other.
His cab slipped away in the night. Unobserved, unnoticed, leaving only the smell of its exhaust and no trace of its occupants. Never a trace of the occupants.