Date 8 - Abbreviated with Constantine

It had been a long morning. My boss offered to buy and bring me breakfast, so I didn’t bother to toast my usual morning bagel. By the time I left for lunch, he still hadn’t arrived and I still hadn’t eaten.

On my way to the lunch place

Again, it was bloody cold out. I left the office with plenty of time and pretty much jogged through the icy air for seven blocks. It was too cold to check my phone, so I have no idea what time it actually was when I got there, but Constantine was characteristically early and had a table for us. His laptop was out and he had been working. I smiled and took off my mittens. When I put them down, he reached across the table to touch my hand as he said, “Hi.” Because people do physical contact. That is a thing. That thing is normal. Breathe.

I said something predictable and self-evident like “It’s bloody cold out!”

The right kind of Tom

He agreed and we went up to the counter to order our food. He seemed excited about his order, because most Thai places have Tom Yum, but this place (which was my suggestion) had Tom Kha. I smiled and nodded as though I’d chosen this place based on that amazing and fortuitous fact. Nope, I was unaware of the presence of any variety of Tom at all. Apparently Tom is a soup. Who knew? I’d never tried anything other than their delicious, delicious Masman curry, which no Tom can ever replace.

So kind of like this, except
not like this at all.

We paid separately and returned to the table. We launched into conversation, but my curry was ready almost instantaneously. I retrieved it, added extra spice and returned to the table. I would have left the box closed to keep my curry warm and to not cause distraction while we waited for Constantine’s order, but the take-out boxes are these weird, elaborate, lotus-folded contraptions, and mine would not fold back up.

We were seated by the doors, which kept opening as students from a nearby high school paraded in and out for their lunch. So at minimum, every minute or so, we were buffeted by a gust of freezing cold from the awful, angry, arctic outer world. My curry sat cooling at my elbow as we talked.

Constantine showed me pictures of his baking projects on his laptop. The photos were artistic and the bread looked amazing. My hands were starting to fidget and I was starving, so I took out my chopsticks and mixed my curry and rice together. We talked chopsticks for a short stint. Mine are telescopic, custom, from Taiwan, and awesome. Constantine had a pair, but they may have been lost or stolen in a strange moving debacle that he’d regaled me with last night. His are orange, with pigs on them, and presumed missing.

When he noticed me fidgeting and playing with chopsticks, Constantine told me he did not mind if I started eating before him. He joked about the fact that he eats quickly and “like a horse.” I waited anyway, because I am courteous and stubborn and not yet so ravenous that I lost all self-control.

I changed the subject and we talked more. After an eternity of waiting, constant conversation, and a zillion ice-baths, Contantine’s Tom was ready. He lifted the lid, and Tom leaked out everywhere. I laughed. Partly because I’m a terrible person and will laugh at unfortunate soup leakages even when I’m on a date (maybe why I'm single). *shot* Partly because it was funny. He went to get napkins. I started eating. Delicious, delicious curry.

I am not sure how I eat, nor do I know how I ought to eat. Maybe I eat like a horse. I’d never thought about it before. Using my lovely chopsticks helped to slow me down, which is the only reason why I hadn’t inhaled the entire meal before Constantine got back with napkins to clean up his Tom. When he moved his bowl, more soup leaked out. I laughed more and ate more curry. After observing him over lunch, I have determined that Constantine does not eat like a horse. For one thing, I’ve never seen a horse eat Tom Kha (probably because it’s the rarer Tom). But also, horses do not hold their bowl of soup in both hands and smile while telling a story, with the soup hanging perilously in the air. They do not pause to drink coconut water.

This is not what he looked like.
Notice the horse has not spilled soup everywhere.

When the food was gone, we continued to talk. I was diligent about time not getting away from us this time, so I checked my phone. This led to a discussion about the embarrassment of owning a Blackberry, Luddites both intentional and accidental, and the sheer villainy of planned obsolescence.

When it was time for me to go back to work, I took our tray up to the counter, and pulled my mittens on. For whatever reason, we waited until we were in the vicious cold to talk about plans to meet again. He offered to cook a meal for me at his house. Partway through making the offer, he paused and asked if it was too forward. I told him I didn’t know. I have absolutely zero gauge for the forwardness of proposed dinner plans. Much like Toms, it’s never really been on my radar. I asked if he thought it was too forward. But by this point he mentioned he’d be making me lasagna from scratch. That pretty much settled things.

We hugged, said so long, and went our separate ways. I waited a block before calling my friend Liz and leaving a wholly incoherent voicemail that was a yin and yang mix of anxiety and elation. I practically sprinted back to the office. That’s why I was breathless.