Table For One

My corporate office is in an affluent area of Atlanta. Tall, clean, beautiful buildings, immaculate, beautiful landscaping, expensive, beautiful cars and most importantly - in abundance - affluent, beautiful people.

And tonight I talk myself into going to dinner by myself - at one of my more favorite locals.
I have almost always hated dining out by myself. That's what roomservice was created for - so women would not have to dine out alone. My hotel does not have room service. I am forced out into the public of beautiful people alone, on my own, with my thoughts to keep me company.

So I take the hotel shuttle to Joey D's Oak Room. I ask the shuttle driver if he's going to be available to pick me up later and return me safely to the hotel. He says - in a thick accent I do not recognize - "Yes." Then follows up with "Until 9:45PM." I ask if he is giving me a curfew. He has a loud hearty laugh. He says No, his manager is...

So I ask for a table for one. I sit in an area near the bar. Behind the bar are glass shelves 20 feet high. They actually have a ladder - like they use in libraries - to access the upper reaches. The spotless, brightly lit shelves are filled with bottles of every size and shape - some with clear contents but most holding an amber colored liquid.

Beautiful young people work here. Crisp white shirts that coordinate with the table cloths. The lights are dim, glowing. Steam and inviting aromas sneak out of the kitchen. Conversations surround and immerse my senses. A cacophony of sound - making it impossible to to discern any complete conversation or even a single word.

My server makes me feel comfortable and at ease. And I am grateful. I watch the people at the bar. The young blonde woman at the bar plays with her hair. She holds it up. She lets it down. A couple at a near by table are locked in conversation most of the night - like it's a first date and they are consuming each other instead of the meal. Two girls (women) are in rapt conversation, heads leaned together, one speaking with her hand over her mouth - like she can't hardly believe what she is saying. About her husband, boyfriend, lover. I imagine.

I have oysters for an appetizer. Reminds me of the oyster bars in New Orleans - in the French Quarter. The name of the restaurant we used to go to on Bourbon St escapes me.

The maitre 'D stops by to check on me. I am fine.

The wine is red. Merlot. It warms me.

I replay the day in my head. the work. the conversations. this warms me too. It's been a good day. A very good day. Do we have to go to tomorrow?

ceasar salad - I don't dare eat more than a few bites as I know the steak to follow will be excellent - it always is. Filet Mignon. rare. with cracked pepper and fresh horseradish.

Before I finish, a party sits at the next table. balloons. noise makers and a Happy Birthday banner. beautiful, skinny, perfect blonde people sit there. they know the chef. he is a huge, broad, bald handsome black man. He brings them glasses of wine. hugs.

I watch. The mother figure at the table invites me to join them. I tell her I already have - in spirit. she smiles. I return it.

Phone home. tell my girls I love them and No, I will not be bringing home surprises. I am told not to come home. That's always a thought...

I phone for the hotel shuttle. Pay my bill. Thank my server. I learn from the receipt her name is Autumn. I like that. She's my new best friend.

Wait outside for the shuttle. Very skinny, beautiful blonde woman emerges with a party of four men. One is her mate. I hear he is an attorney. She is VERY drunk - I expect her to be sick at any moment. The rest of the guys are surprisingly pretty decent about it.

my shuttle shows up before she leaves with her attorney.
It's a different driver this time. The radio is on.
Phil Collins. "Don't Let Him Steal Your Heart Away."