.

When I arrive, R is already seated. He raises his head
in my direction, smiles widely and tilts his chin into
an unusually elevated angle. Floating this expression
in the air for one prolonged moment gives him an aura
of Renaissance statuary. The light from the window
flooding in from one side. The chiaroscuro. We are
sitting in a crowded cafe. The clink of coffee cups
provides percussive emphasis to the all-around buzz
of conversation. R pulls out his phone and dials.

"Oh hi. Is she there yet? No? Well could you please tell
the Countess Framboise that her pressence is requested on
Sunday. No, it's Ryner. Not Rider! Ryner. R-Y-N-E--R.
Thank you, bye."

R puts his phone back on the table and shakes his head,
"Who is Rider?! I mean, really."
He smiles and returns to his dinner plans.
"Check this out. I just bought it." He slowly drags both
hands upwards along the length of its smooth cold contour
and rests them on its button-shaped lid.

"What is it?"

"A biscotti jar."

I study it for a moment. "I'd be concerned. One, you don't
usually have any biscotti. Do you have to devote a whole
jar to it? And it's very modern. Do you really want to
contrast this with your all-chrome decor? You never served
biscotti before."

He ignores my biscotti comments and returns to his dinner plans.
"So I was thinking of serving lamb. What do you think of that?"

I interject. "You can season it with the spices in prosciutto-pastrami.
Wrap a rack of lamb with it and let them seep in. Then cook it."

"Have you ever done it like that before?", he asks.

"No. I hate lamb."

He nods. "I think I'll do lamb. And I'll do snow peas. A crunchy
salad. I mean, I can make a scalloped potato salad if you want.
A lemon poppy seed cake would be nice for spring. I think I'll
do a carrot soup..."

His gaze disappears out the window, but the sardonic grin and
twinkling eyes say it all. He has invited his parents and warns
that they will be out of place, "like bulls in a china shop".
He adds, "Don't holidays just bring out the worst in everyone,
sometimes? All that pressure to be so perfect!"

I shake my head and smile. "You are so gay!"

After leaving the cafe, I remember TS Eliot's line,
"Every poem is an epitaph.", and wonder why I feel so
compelled to write this conversation down. What is it
about this particular slice-of-life that needs to be
recorded? But as I push my car key into its lock, I hear
myself repeating these words; "God is in the details."

"Who then devised the torment? Love.
Love is the unfamiliar Name.
Behind the hands that wove
The intolerable shirt of flame
Which human power cannot remove
We only live, only suspire
Consumed by either fire or fire."
(TS Eliot)