Wallace and Sorrel
Brenna Washburn
You are at a restaurant with your boyfriend, Wallace. It’s lunch time. You want to order a panini, when Wallace, at the same time, wants to order the breadstick appetizer. This does not mix with your new “low carb” diet. He also knows that you can’t resist breadsticks when you see them.
“We are different people, Wallace,” you say, wringing your raw hands against your dark, warm sweater. It has lint. You make a mental note to clean out your dryer screen more often. Wallace responds, “You say tomato, I say tomah-to, Sorrel.”
You look out the window that is often mistaken for a people filter. You agree with a solemn grin, followed by a scowl toward the already-been-swatted flies in the windowsill. The buzzing rings in your ears. They try to fly out of the window with the poor little broken wings they have left. You almost want to complain about the untidiness of the “5 Star” outing café, but you don’t have the time, nor the grit.
“You can’t tell me what to do. Do you understand me?” you ask, pursing your lips. You do this when you’re nervous. When Wallace doesn’t respond back, you get defensive; all you did was voice your opinion about the breadsticks you don’t want. You wouldn’t want your relationship to end over something as diminutive as an appetizer.
You stand your ground, “I am ordering this panini,” you say, pointing to the foggy picture on the plastic menu, trying not to let it get to you. “I am trying to limit carbs,” you add.
“Then out of the whole menu, why, just why, would you order the panini? That has carbs too, you know!” Wallace responds, crossing his arms.
“Maybe I like the paninis here, Wallace! Stop interrogating me and telling me what I like and what I don’t.” You try not to notice the couple staring at you from the booth ahead. They are a puffy, grey shadow covered by a window above the booth. The glass fogs their faces through a flowered vine design. Swallowing back your embarrassment, you take a sip of your now cold coffee. You call the waitress over for a new cup. She asks if you are alright, noticing your blushed face and the full cup being replaced. You reply with a slight nod of the head. She touches your shoulder with her warm hand and puts her focus towards the table adjacent. “What a waste of coffee!” mentions Wallace. “I would’ve drank it in a heartbeat, don’t matter if it’s hot or cold.” After a while of waiting, your waitress comes back, and Wallace orders the breadsticks for an appetizer, then after that, the meals for the two of you. He makes it appear as though you are physically incapable of ordering for yourself. The breadsticks are brought and you give in, eating only a part of a small one at the bottom of the wicker basket in white cloth.
Wallace’s cologne seeps into your nose; he put on too much. You, Sorrel, decide to leave that conversation for a later time because your panini comes. It’s a caprese with tomatoes, mozzarella cheese, and basil. You try to enjoy it, eating it only in small morsels. Something about it bothers you; it doesn’t taste as fresh as it normally does. You ask the waitress for a new one and she apologizes. Once you find out that they ran clean out of the ingredients to make another, you order a different kind. They are out of those ingredients too. You, once again, Sorrel, swallow your humiliation and continue with your original sandwich, the one that started it all, even though you don’t necessarily enjoy it.
Once lunch is complete and dessert is denied, Wallace gets handed the check. He signs it and puts his card in, while you leave a generous tip of $20. You pick up your brown purse from the edge of the wooden booth and stand to leave. You follow Wallace out of the restaurant, and when you get to the doors leading to the parking lot, you thank the waitress who delivered your new cup of coffee. She walks over, takes the tip, and the busser comes to clean up the mess you left behind. The breadsticks sit on the table. Two went uneaten.
Brenna Washburn
You are at a restaurant with your boyfriend, Wallace. It’s lunch time. You want to order a panini, when Wallace, at the same time, wants to order the breadstick appetizer. This does not mix with your new “low carb” diet. He also knows that you can’t resist breadsticks when you see them.
“We are different people, Wallace,” you say, wringing your raw hands against your dark, warm sweater. It has lint. You make a mental note to clean out your dryer screen more often. Wallace responds, “You say tomato, I say tomah-to, Sorrel.”
You look out the window that is often mistaken for a people filter. You agree with a solemn grin, followed by a scowl toward the already-been-swatted flies in the windowsill. The buzzing rings in your ears. They try to fly out of the window with the poor little broken wings they have left. You almost want to complain about the untidiness of the “5 Star” outing café, but you don’t have the time, nor the grit.
“You can’t tell me what to do. Do you understand me?” you ask, pursing your lips. You do this when you’re nervous. When Wallace doesn’t respond back, you get defensive; all you did was voice your opinion about the breadsticks you don’t want. You wouldn’t want your relationship to end over something as diminutive as an appetizer.
You stand your ground, “I am ordering this panini,” you say, pointing to the foggy picture on the plastic menu, trying not to let it get to you. “I am trying to limit carbs,” you add.
“Then out of the whole menu, why, just why, would you order the panini? That has carbs too, you know!” Wallace responds, crossing his arms.
“Maybe I like the paninis here, Wallace! Stop interrogating me and telling me what I like and what I don’t.” You try not to notice the couple staring at you from the booth ahead. They are a puffy, grey shadow covered by a window above the booth. The glass fogs their faces through a flowered vine design. Swallowing back your embarrassment, you take a sip of your now cold coffee. You call the waitress over for a new cup. She asks if you are alright, noticing your blushed face and the full cup being replaced. You reply with a slight nod of the head. She touches your shoulder with her warm hand and puts her focus towards the table adjacent. “What a waste of coffee!” mentions Wallace. “I would’ve drank it in a heartbeat, don’t matter if it’s hot or cold.” After a while of waiting, your waitress comes back, and Wallace orders the breadsticks for an appetizer, then after that, the meals for the two of you. He makes it appear as though you are physically incapable of ordering for yourself. The breadsticks are brought and you give in, eating only a part of a small one at the bottom of the wicker basket in white cloth.
Wallace’s cologne seeps into your nose; he put on too much. You, Sorrel, decide to leave that conversation for a later time because your panini comes. It’s a caprese with tomatoes, mozzarella cheese, and basil. You try to enjoy it, eating it only in small morsels. Something about it bothers you; it doesn’t taste as fresh as it normally does. You ask the waitress for a new one and she apologizes. Once you find out that they ran clean out of the ingredients to make another, you order a different kind. They are out of those ingredients too. You, once again, Sorrel, swallow your humiliation and continue with your original sandwich, the one that started it all, even though you don’t necessarily enjoy it.
Once lunch is complete and dessert is denied, Wallace gets handed the check. He signs it and puts his card in, while you leave a generous tip of $20. You pick up your brown purse from the edge of the wooden booth and stand to leave. You follow Wallace out of the restaurant, and when you get to the doors leading to the parking lot, you thank the waitress who delivered your new cup of coffee. She walks over, takes the tip, and the busser comes to clean up the mess you left behind. The breadsticks sit on the table. Two went uneaten.