THE WATERFRONT STORY.

There is a nice restaurant on the Flats called Waterfront, which, while it describes its location perfectly, gives an insight to the unimaginativeness of the locale. We were served promptly, despite our t-shirt and jeans that clashed with the dark burgundy and gold interior, and were seated in what I could only describe as a greenhouse because with a time-lapse camera, I could probably pinpoint the exact moment when I began to wither away.
Our waiter never even gave his name, which established our relationship right from the start. We were here to eat and possibly feel above ourselves for being in such a fine establishment; he was there to benefit nicely from it. Subsequently, I ordered the cheapest thing on the menu: at seven ninety-five, I was prepping myself for perhaps the world's best grilled chicken pasta salad, ever. I did feel a slight twinge of regret and wished I could order something pricier to banish the wandering-in-like-a-pair-of-lost-orphans demeanor which we had inevitably presented. But there you have it, we were wandering, more poor than lost, however.
We had a nice conversation, but my eye kept moving over to a family that had just been ushered in the greenhouse. At least I hope it was a family and not a boyfriend meeting his girlfriend's family for the first time. The boy had sandy colored hair, the color of sand perfectly that it didn't surprise me to see he had blue eyes to match. It wasn't his face, which was lovely to begin with, that caught my attention. He was wearing a pink-and-green button-down shirt, striking to say the least, and it piqued my interest.
"That's the kind of guy you like, isn't it?" she said, breaking away from the bread and butter and a recollection of her latest Manquest (both of which would be picked up later). She gave him a glance herself and said, "Eww, pink. And what's up with his hair?"
"See, I don't go for the usual, cookie-cutter type that you like. I like guys who have that special little kick, or that extra flair, or ..." This is what I wish I would have said, except now it sounds as if I want a cheerleading, maracas-wielding boyfriend. And she would've responded with, "So what you're saying is you like gay men?", to which I have no reply catty enough to disband any notions that Yes, well, what I'm saying is...is it too much to ask for...
I soon became preoccupied with the food, however, and I listened to her banter about her rugby-and-football playing Manquest who, sadly, lived forty-five minutes away. She did have a pleasant glow on her face, some of which undoubtedly came from a sheen layer of sweat (being in the greenhouse, after all). I asked her if she was sure he was indeed single.
"Yeah-huh, I asked around and found out all about him."
"In two hours?" I asked, thinking, things have changed. We can roll out mail-order-special carpets in our backyard, water it faithfully, and grow petunias; we can find someone and, in the space of two hours, be convinced we know their souls inside and out, like the back of our hands, even if we've never seen the back of their hands. "Does this sort of thing happen a lot?" I prompted, feeling even more aged than the cheese feathered into my pasta.
"No," she replied, thank God. "But...this was something special, I think."
By the time we decided we were stuffed, we still had three-quarters of our food on the plate. Our waiter came by several times and didn't offer to show us the dessert menu, or clear the table, or if we were done, even when we had the obvious signs laid out: the green napkins were on the table, our plates pushed away from us, we were both leaning back into the chairs, and we both kept eyeing the one of the five hundred doors that were in the greenhouse. Finally, my sister flashed him a come-here-now-or-we're-leaving-you-a-shitty-tip look, which to me seemed more to resemble her I-have-to-pee-where-is-the-nearest-restroom look, both of which have disastrous results anyway.
We rushed out of the Waterfront, after leaving the waiter with a tip worthy of penny-pinching, fuschia-stained-lip aunts who gave socks and watches for Christmas. After surveying the Flats one more time, and deciding that it was still a ghost town, we decided to venture into the venue since we had seen two people go inside, deeming it open for business.
"You girls like walkin' around the Flats all day?" the bouncer said, and I realized that this man had been sitting by the door all day himself, watching us walk up and down the road, wandering like a pair of lost orphans.
"Seems like it, right?" I told him, not knowing how to reply to that in the first place. When we had settled at a table, I asked her, "Was that stupid or what?"
"There are no stupid answers," she told me. "Only stupid questions."