Anthony Varallo
My girlfriend and I were at a restaurant together, on the verge of breaking up again, when the man at the table next to ours leaned over and said, "Excuse me, but I couldn't help overhearing your conversation." He gave me a look that was meant to be conspiratorial or accusatory or both, I couldn't tell. "And I have to say that I agree with your girlfriend," the man said. "You really do spend too much time dwelling upon your childhood."
We hadn't been talking about me dwelling upon my childhood; we'd been discussing appetizers.
"It really is a form of self-pity," the man said, and dabbed at his lips with a white napkin. "In the final analysis."
I was about to ask him what right he thought he had to eavesdrop, when our waitress appeared, balancing two cocktails on a serving tray. "Excuse me," she said, placing my girlfriend's drink on the table, "but I couldn't help overhearing what this gentleman just said to you, and I have to say I think he's right: you shouldn't leave your bath towel hanging on the shower door." She set my drink in front of me. "It shows just how little you think about others."
I looked at my girlfriend. I wanted her to explain to the waitress that I hadn't left my towel on the shower door in weeks, months even, after we'd argued about it. And I think she would have explained if the maître d' hadn't tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Excuse me, but I couldn't help overhearing your conversation, and I have to say that I agree with your waitress: you can't keep accusing your parents of not paying enough attention to you, when you're the one who hasn't called them in months." The maître d' wore a black bowtie. "It's nothing more than projection."
I started to explain that, although I hadn't called my parents in a while, I texted them from time to time, and occasionally sent them pictures, but, at that moment the busboy materialized from wherever the busboy materialized from, and said, "Excuse me—"
"Don't tell me," I said.
"But I couldn't help overhearing your conversation, and I have to say—"
"That you agree with what the maître d' just said," I said.
The busboy nodded. "You really do make everything in this relationship about you," he said, "to the point where the relationship isn't really even a relationship, it's more like a movie playing inside your head." He took our silverware, although we hadn't even ordered yet. "It's a form of narcissism."
I would have refuted him, if the sous chef, sommelier, line cook, and hostess didn't arrive, each raising a questioning finger. "Excuse me," they said. "But I couldn't help overhearing—"
My girlfriend grabbed me by the hand and led me from the table, through the crowd, and through the front door.
Outside, I said, "Well."
"Well," my girlfriend said.
A week later, we were engaged.