Mists of the Serengeti(82)
“Everything’s fine, Njoroge. Thank you.” Jack slid the chair out for me before seating himself.
“Good to see you, Mr. Warden. It’s been a while,” Njoroge replied, handing us the menus. “I’ll send someone over to take your order right away.”
We sat in silence after he left. I flipped the pages back and forth, not really reading the choices.
“What’s wrong?” Jack lowered my menu so he could see my face.
“Nothing, just . . .” I shook my head. I was being petty, and I didn’t want to spoil our evening. “It’s nothing.”
Jack took my menu away and pinned me down with his steely blues.
“Could we not . . .” I crossed my legs under the table. “Could we just . . .”
His expression didn’t waver.
“Fine.” I sighed. “You used to bring Sarah here.” I had forgotten all about it until Jack had addressed the ma?tre d’ by name.
“I did.” His face was set in watchful dignity. “The last time I came here with my ex was six years ago. We sat at that table.” He tilted his head toward the window. “When we left, we both knew it was over. I haven’t been back since. It doesn’t exactly bring back good memories. But you know what, Rodel?” He reached across the table for my hand. “Everything is new when I’m with you. Food tastes better. Colors look brighter. Music is sweeter. I feel hungry for the world again. I want to go to the places I’ve skipped, I want to share them with you—show you who I am, who I was, who I can be.
“I’m here, Rodel, not because I like the sugar cookies they leave on my pillow, or the Steak freakin’ Diane on the menu. I’m here, in a restaurant full of people, with you, because I can’t afford to fall apart, because the thought of you leaving is killing me, so I’m focusing on creating as many beautiful, grand moments as I can for you. I can’t give you much else, but I can give you that. And I can’t fathom—not for an instant—why you’d be sitting across from me and thinking of my ex, because I sure as hell wasn’t. When I’m with you, Rodel, I’m all with you.”
He’d done it again—sent that ticker tape of emotions all over the place. I felt big and small all at once, like I was holding stars in one hand but sifting through gunk with the other.
“I’m sorry,” I said in a low, tormented voice. “I’m sorry I’m ruining our evening.” A stab of guilt lay buried in my breast, but there was something more, something I was stifling underneath it all. I wanted him to tell me he loved me. I wanted to hear the words. That was the real reason I was acting like a jerk, and I didn’t like the way it made me feel. “And just so we’re clear,” I teased him with my eyes, “I really like those sugar cookies. They’re shaped like tulips, and they taste like heaven.”
Jack seemed caught off guard by the quick turnaround, but he threw me an amused glance. His smile had the feeling of indefinable rightness.
“We’d like two dozen of your sugar cookies,” he said, when the waiter came to get our order. “To go.”
“Yes, sir. Anything else I can get for you?”
“No, that will be all.”
“That’s it?” I exclaimed, when the waiter was gone. “That’s what you’re going to feed me? Cookies, on my last night here?” I snatched my hand away from his and feigned outrage. “What about all the beautiful, grand moments? You can’t create those on an empty stomach. I think—”
He hushed me with a long, tapered finger on my lips. “Too many words. Too much talking. If I wanted to talk, I’d have invited Bahati instead.” He picked up the ribbon-adorned box of cookies that the waiter brought and came around to get my chair. “You ready to leave?”
My skin tingled where he touched it.
Hell, yes. Let’s go.
But I sniffed as he steered me out of the restaurant. “That was a cheap date.”
“Quit complaining. You didn’t want to eat there anyway.”
“Wait.” I said, when he handed the valet his parking ticket. “I thought we were going to our room. Where are you taking me?”
“On a cheap date.” He winked, seating me in the car when it came around.
We drove away from the hotel and merged into the chaotic traffic of Amosha. The sky was aflame with hues of red and orange from the setting sun. A truck with giant megaphones rattled by us, blaring advertisements in Swahili. Shopkeepers waved phone cards and colorful swathes of kangas as people walked by.
Jack parked outside a sorry looking food stall, off the main road. Its fluorescent light buzzed on and off under a rusty roof. “Kilimanjaro Premium Lager” logos hung from the ceiling, held together by clothes pegs on twine. A row of black woks hovered over flames in the front, hissing and bubbling with oil. Battered plastic chairs rested around plastic tables on an uneven floor—half dirt, half gravel.
“Come on.” Jack came around and held the car door open for me. “Best nyama choma in town.”
“What’s nyama choma?”
“Grilled meat.” He steadied me as my heel got stuck in the gravel.
“We are definitely overdressed for this place,” I said. Faint fumes of petroleum wafted in from the gas station next to the stall. Dala dalas raced by with abandon, and women in bright kangas strolled by, carrying all sorts of food on their heads.