Wrong Tree

I watched them. I watched as they turned the corner holding hands, her hand resting safely inside his, a rough and burly five digit creature. I watched as he told a joke and made her laugh, hiding his on satisfaction of bringing her such joy. I watched as he pointed to the restaurant where I sat under a canopy as if to suggest it as a place to enjoy brunch, his bare arm slightly flexing. She didn’t seem impressed by the place’s name: Minnie’s Munchery. I watched as they passed me, panting as they walked away in what seemed slow motion. I watched as both of the rears swished side-to-side, yearning for what she had.

I felt my jeans get tighter on top of my right thigh. As I attempted to readjust myself, the waiter led Richard to our table. I scooted up closer to the table and folded my hands on the table as if I had nothing to hide.

“Yo,” Richard said as he came in for a hug.

“What up,” I answered without getting up. I dismissed his embrace by saying he was late. It was only by a minute or two.

“Sorry, Mr. Punctual. I’m guessing you ordered then.”

I shook my head and handed him a menu. I studied my own without hearing the fruit cart come around. “Can I offer you gentleman anything? Apples, grapes? Perhaps a banana for you, sir?” I stared venomously at the fruit lady and crossed my left leg over my right. For some reason, bananas always reminded me of a lesson in a Shakespeare literature class where my teacher revealed that some women cut off the penises of dead men and put them in their mouth. I can’t remember what play this was in reference to; it’s just one of those odd tidbits I never bothered to fact check out of pure astonishment.

We received our meals shortly after we ordered. He got french toast, side of bacon. A plate of scrambled eggs, link sausages, hash browns, and two biscuits were placed before me – a relatively safe brunch. I didn’t want to chance looking beastly as I ate my meal. I glanced across the table at Richard as he pushed half a slice of french toast into his mouth, maple syrup ornamenting his lips.

“You eat like the mutt you are,” I said to the Irish-Polish-other-ethnicity-I-had-forgotten man seated across from me.

“Right, like that curly brown hair of yours came from your black momma.”  

I chuckled and went to place my hand over his. He pulled his hand away before I could reach it and slapped mine away. “Stop confusing my touchiness and clever retorts for affection, man. I told you that that one drunken night.”

“But…” I started but didn’t finish, going back to my sausage.

Across the street I heard a stray dog barking. Its front legs were against a tree. I looked to the branches and saw nothing, not even a nest. Then I noticed a squirrel on the next tree over. It looked down on the hound with a blank stare I read as pity. I smiled. I wasn’t going to bark anymore.