City Love(26)

The truffle mac and cheese arrives with a flourish. It smells amazing. It looks amazing. D motions for me to pick up my side plate. I hold it out for him to serve me some mac and cheese decadence. Not sure of which fork I should use, I decide to go for the one farthest to the outside. I sink my fork into the gooey cheese delight. The scent of truffle oil tickles my nose. D watches while I take my first bite.

“Oh. My. God,” I say. This is the most incredible thing I’ve ever tasted. In my whole entire life.

“There’s more where that came from.”

“You have to stop me from eating the whole plate. I could eat this every day and never get tired of it.”

D leans back in his chair, sipping the glass of red wine he ordered with dinner. He gives me a contemplative smile.

“What?” I press my napkin against my lips. “Do I have cheese on my face?”

“I love that you appreciate this so much.”

I can’t deny it. He got me. He got me with the fancy restaurant and the one degree of Oprah and the most decadent truffle mac and cheese deliciousness I’ve ever tasted in my life. Remaining unimpressed would be futile.

“Thank you for bringing me here,” I say.

“Why do you sound like it’s the end of the night? It’s only the beginning.”

“No, I just . . . wanted you to know how much I appreciate it. I’ve never been to a restaurant like this.”

“Like I said. It’s only the beginning.”

D may be a materialistic manwhore, but he’s also very fortunate. Money gives him the ability to do things I will probably never be able to.

“What’s it like being a grownup?” I ask.

D laughs. “It definitely doesn’t suck. Having the freedom to do whatever I want, whenever I want is awesome. Growing up on the Upper West was cool, but I couldn’t wait to have my own place.”

“You said your apartment needs work?”

“My loft, yeah. We renovated, but there are still some things I want to do.” His eyes sparkle at me in the candlelight. “So what about you? What do you want to do with your life?”

“I want to be a social worker.”

“Admirable profession. Do you plan on staying in New York?”

“Definitely. I’ve always wanted to live here.”

“You’ll have a tough time on a social worker’s salary in Manhattan. Rents are insane.”

“I don’t care. I just want to do what I’m passionate about and help make the world a better place while I’m doing it.”

“What makes you so passionate about social work?”

The main reason is something I could never tell D. Or anyone. When people ask why I want to go into social work, I focus on our society’s abysmal moral standards instead of revealing my darkest secret.

“Watching people interact with each other,” I say. “Seeing how much people lack compassion. Most people don’t realize the effect they have on the people around them. Or the effect they have on the whole world. They just don’t get it. Yesterday I was at the 7-Eleven and I saw a dad with his son who looked like he was seven or eight. His son was hungry. He wanted a hot dog. When he reached for one of the hot dogs in the warmer, his dad slapped his hand away. Not a light tap. A full-on, hard slap. His dad yelled at him for how he’s always doing stupid stuff like that. He was like, ‘What’s wrong with you?! Why are you so stupid?’ But that wasn’t the most surprising part. Parents mistreating their kids is unfortunately a lot more common than we realize. What struck me the most was that the boy didn’t cry. At first I couldn’t understand that. How could he take his father physically and verbally abusing him without a trace of emotion on his face? Then I realized that the boy was hardening himself against feeling emotion. You could tell his dad yells at him like that all the time. And if he slaps the boy like that in public, what happens at home must be way worse. That little boy has programmed himself to avoid crying when his dad treats him like dirt. He’s eight years old and already cold as ice.”

I take a shaky sip of water. I’m getting way too worked up for a first date. But I can’t help it. Kids being mistreated in any way makes me so angry. My heart aches for all the pain and suffering that boy has to endure for many years to come.

“That’s how boys grow up to be *s,” D says. “He probably used to cry when he was younger and his dad made fun of him for being weak. As if being in touch with your emotions is a bad thing.”

“Now there’s a generation of emotionally immature guys who are unable to open up in a relationship. Men like that douche are raising the next generation of detached, unfeeling pricks. I couldn’t stand watching him. It was horrible.”

“Did you say anything?”

“I wanted to. I was about to go up and ask him to please stop abusing his son or I’d call the police. But he would have just laughed at me. Nothing I could have said would have changed him. And I was afraid he’d take it out on the boy. His anger at me would have come out later that night, or the next day, or the next week. And it would have been my fault. So I stayed quiet even though it was killing me to not say anything.”

“You did the right thing. That guy was deranged. He might have hit you. Better to stay out of it.”

“I disagree. I hate myself for not saying anything. If no one speaks up when they see someone being mistreated, these cycles of abuse will continue. We all need to take a stand. Why do people have to be so disappointing? We’re better than this. As a democratic society, we are better than this. I need to have more courage next time.”