"Looks like we're talking a half-hour wait."

Which means, of course, an hour. An hour of waiting in the over-packed, over-amped bar, nursing a Campari, hoping that Sarah will actually show, knowing she most likely won't.

"Unless you're OK with family style.  I've still got a seat open in the main room."

What the hey.  I'm here.  I'm hungry.  And stuffing my face with a comped meal sounds better than a bowl of ramen back home.

I nod.  She grabs a menu.  Then it's follow the leader, swerving to avoid the bar-droid with the tray of tall green iced whatevers, the bus boy who trolls in her wake, stacking empties, wiping tops, the waitress who is pulling doubles to pay off a DUI her boyfriend still doesn't know about, and a clot of incredibly thin, incredibly blonde women who are managing to stand dead center in everyone's way, either laughing hysterically or sobbing uncontrollably, take your pick.  Still, no one seems to care or notice, because the salsa is blasting in here as well, and the sound of fork finding plate, plate meeting table is matched only by the roar of each and every diner talking a little bit louder, no, not talking, shouting, screaming to be heard, to the person at their table, to the person on their cell, to the person hovering just two feet away, asking if they'd like to take the rest of that on home.

Just north of the blondes are two large tables, each a full twelve-top, both of them packed, except for a single open spot at the very head of the nearest one.  The server stops.  Nods towards the open chair.  I can feel a half-dozen conversations suddenly cease, then watch as heads pivot, eyes narrow.  No one really wants to look, but they have to.  Because each of them is terrified by what they see, knowing that perhaps one day it could be them, not me.  The Thing That Eats Alone.

I keep my own eyes locked on the server.  Find my chair by braile alone.  Then, once seated, I pretend to study the menu, which is one of those obscene, oversized tomes big enough for a duck blind.  After a few seconds the chatter level starts to creep back up.  The Thing risks a quick reconnoiter.

To my left sits a woman.  One look at her face, her smile, and I know I would give anything to have her looking, smiling, back at me.  Her attentions, however, are meant for someone else, a someone who sits across from her, next to me.  I turn my gaze, already hating whoever that person might be.

Even if it is Simon.

Or more like a version of Simon.  The man sitting there is younger than the one I know, his hair longer, his chin sporting one of those hip little soul patches everyone was affecting a while back.  But it's not the flourishes, the details, that really stand out.  It's the essence.  Whenever he'd visit, Simon always had this tentative quality about him.  Like snowfall caught on a slender branch, or a dandelion riding the breeze.  He was ephemeral, fleeting, an accident waiting to happen, or un-happen.  But whoever, whatever this person is, he feels solid, substantial, real.

"Don't bother.  It's just a waste of time."

It's the woman talking.  I move my eyes from Simon, turn instead towards her.

"The menu,"  she explains, nodding at mine.  "We're riding steerage.  They bring us whatever they want to bring us, and we'd damn well better like it."

Her accent is faint but unmistakable.  Yorkshire hills.  A spoonful of sugar.  If I was in love before, I am now officially besotted.

"It's their way of punishing us," Simon adds.  "For showing up without reservations."  His voice is deeper, more forceful than the one I've grown used to.  Then again, he is shouting over all that din.

As I watch, he extends his hand.  "I'm Chuck."

Chuck?

The woman smiles.  "Claire."

Claire?

Now they're both staring at me.  Without even thinking, I open my mouth.  "Simon."

"Simon.  What a lovely name."  She reaches out and pats my hand.  "I had a puppy once called Simon.  A terrier.  Fiercest thing in the world when it came to a pair of socks."

I want to be that pair of socks.  I want her to be Simon.  I can almost feel those tiny teeth, nuzzling, gnawing, ripping away at me, when the real Simon, or Chuck, or whoever he is pipes up again.

"So how'd you hear about this place?"

It takes me a second to clear my head.  "I've been selling them produce ever since they opened.  June, July?  Matt, their chef, kept saying I had to drop in.  Taste their vision, or view their taste, or something."

"You sell produce?'' She makes the 'prod' rhyme with God.  "What, you mean you're a farmer?"

I nod once, knowing what's coming.

"Oh my gosh.  That's wonderful."

At which point I would normally launch into my woe-is-me, anything-but-wonderful, plight-of-the-farmer tirade.  This will include a brief summation of agricultural developments in twentieth-century America, a cogent analysis of current market trends, a point-by-point comparison of Big Ag, Industrial Organic and truly sustainable, small-scale farming, and a few good digs for the greedy, self-serving hypocrites who grow pot, sorry, "herbal medicine".  

Only I can't.  Seeing her face, her enthusiasm, I want her to believe that what I do is wonderful.  That I myself am wonderful.

"Well, yeah," I admit, "it does have it's advantages.  Like getting a free meal from time to time."

I risk a quick peek at Simon.  Or is it Chuck?  Either way, I detect a change in his face, a glimmer of discontent.  They were having what looked like a nice one-on-one.  And now it's been crashed, hijacked.  By me.

I offer him a conciliatory smile.  "And what about you?" I ask.  "What puts bread on your table?"

"I play games."

There's something there, almost an arrogance, that surprises me.  No, not my Simon.  Not by a long shot.

For her part, Claire doesn't even seem to notice.  "You've heard of DoQuest?  Chuck's one of their brains.  He's designed all sorts of virtual worlds for their online gaming.  You know.  Imaginary creatures, imaginary worlds."

"Imaginary people too?"

"Haven't you noticed?  All people are imaginary."

I wait for him to continue.

"Alright, so say our bodies are real.  And maybe you could argue the things they feel are real, too - hunger, anger, lust.  But everything else is a construct.  Our personalities, our memories, they're acts of the imagination, our own mainly, but we're also constantly being imagined by other people.  The people we know."  He glances across the table.  "The people we love."

The comment, the moment, are theirs, not mine, and I immediately look away, wishing I were invisible, intangible.  Imaginary.  And then, almost against my will, I can feel my eyes lowering, turning, following his, to the woman whom he clearly loves, and whom, if he's lucky, loves him, imagines him, in return.

Only it's not her.  Not the one with the auburn hair, and the grey-green eyes, and amethyst earrings.  Not the one who was sitting there.  No, this woman is older, taller, with blondish hair, and darker eyes, and I know I've seen her somewhere before, somewhere long ago, and the salsa music seems to fade, and I'm hearing another song, still lots of splashy brass, but there's a woman singing, and a chorus behind her, and a refrain going over and over.  Downtown.  Downtown.

And then the song stops.  The salsa returns.  I realize there is yet another woman standing there, midway between Simon and me.  Our waitress.

She smiles.  It is the smile of an infinite, unknowable, and not entirely benign universe, enjoying a joke.  A joke that seems to be on me.

"So can I get you guys anything to drink?"