Can I Get An Amen? by Sarah Healy

Author:Sarah Healy [Healy, Sarah]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781101588697
Publisher: Penguin Group US
Published: 2012-06-05T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

As he pulled out my chair, the metal legs screeched against the industrial tile floor. The restaurant, which was located at the end of a strip mall in a blue-collar, largely Hispanic town in New Jersey, didn’t seem like a typical choice for a first date, but the lighting was dim, the food smelled good, and the music made you feel like all was well with the world. The other tables were filled with families and older couples, mostly Hispanic. I was totally and unconditionally charmed.

Mark sat down across from me, wearing a thin thermal-knit long-sleeve navy blue shirt and a pair of jeans. He smelled good in the way that some men just do, without the aid of aftershave or cologne. He wasn’t wearing his glasses tonight but was still unquestionably handsome. He looked around the room, as if trying to view it from my perspective, then smiled shyly. “I know it doesn’t look like much, but the food is amazing.”

“No, it’s great,” I assured him. “I’m excited to try it.”

As if on cue, a busty, heavily made-up woman with olive skin and curly, almost black hair came to the table with two menus.

“Hola, Marcos. Me alegro de verte,” she said, smiling warmly, a large gap between her two front teeth. She set a menu down in front of each of us and appraised me like a mother.

“Hola, Armena,” said Mark, rolling his r perfectly, sounding as comfortable in Spanish as he did in English. “¿Cómo estás?”

“Buena,” she answered, before nodding toward me. “Ella es bonita, Marcos.”

“Si, Armena.” Mark smiled shyly. “Ya lo sé.”

“Bien,” she said, walking slowly away.

“Sorry,” he said, turning back to me.

“What did she say?” I asked.

He lowered his head and leaned toward me. “She said”—he glanced at the waitress, who was staring back at us—“that you are very pretty.”

I looked down at my menu and blushed. I had worn a ruffly sleeveless silk chemise and tight black jeans with black boots, which I had rushed home to get on my lunch break. My sweater was hanging on the back of my chair.

Mark had offered to pick me up at home, which as far as he knew was Kat’s home. “Actually, I have to work late,” I had said, “so maybe we could just meet at the restaurant?” But we settled on Mark picking me up at work. I had changed and primped in the women’s room after most everyone had left for the night, the office all but empty and silent as I applied my shimmery gray eye shadow and slicked my lips in a barely there pale pink gloss.

“So what is good here?” I asked, always embarrassed by compliments.

Mark looked reluctantly away from me and at the menu. “Their ropa vieja is amazing.”

I read the description. “Sold,” I said. Though this cuisine originated on a warm Caribbean island, it sounded perfect for a cold December night.

Mark ordered for us after introducing me to the waitress. “He is a good man,” she said in heavily accented English, patting Mark on the shoulder.

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