altho holly would beg to differ (what, b/c i forget 40% of what she tells me in two minutes or less??), i can be an extremely good listener.
ppl tell me a lot of personal stuff–sometimes ppl i barely know–which honestly? i love. b/c a) i love helping ppl feel better [even if it’s only a matter of lending an ear, telling someone they’re “normal” (i mean, what the hell is “normal” anyway??) or vindicating them with w/a string of new jersey-inspired profanities] and b) i love being the sole receptacle of juicy information (hey, i’m a journalist– occupational hazard).
i think ppl tell me things b/c i’m a good listener and non-judgemental. also, i give good hugs, usually have tissues nearby and always have some sort of hard candy or snack in my bag (hard candy and/or snacks always seem to cheer ppl up). also i don’t blab. you tell me something and it’s under lock and key, baby. but if i overhear something from someone i don’t know? yeah, all bets are off.
which brings me to last night. last night, c/o of a very generous gift certificate, holly and i had an impromptu date night at baltimore’s eye-poppingly fabulous pazo (the place? seriously? gor-geous). we really needed it. we’re going on month three, post-layoff and yeah, we needed a monday night pick-me-up.
so we sit down at a table, and shortly after we’re seated, another couple is seated close by. it’s this guy and this girl and they’re clearly on a date. a first date or maybe a second. they’re both young-ish, seems like, but not super young. she’s gorgeous, he’s handsome in a regular sort of way.
anyone who’s ever been a restaurant can tell you that sometimes it’s nearly impossible not to hear the conversation going on next to you. this was no exception, and the more they (i.e. he) drank, the easier it was to hear. midway thru our meal, i found out he was a musician. she was some sort of professional, dressed to the nines.
from the start, he was puttin it on pretty thick, telling her how beautiful her hands were (! haha), and generally cheesin’ it up, as i like to say. like asking the waitress if she was from this country originally, and loudly pointing out that the conductor of the baltimore symphony orchestra (who, admittedly, is quite fabulous) was sitting “over there.” by the time we got to dessert and coffee, he was onto more salacious topics.
“everyone thinks she’s a lesbian, but she’s not,” he said rather proudly of some woman he probably (from the sound of it) thought was hot.
“really?” asked his dining companion.
don’t ask me how it happened, b/c my ears aren’t that good, and i was on my own date after all (!), but soon he was asking her is she had any “girl fun,” i think was the term he used. i’m like, nohejustdidn’t. and she was like, yeah, but pretty bashful. and he was like, oh yeah? how many times?
she’s like, “two or three.” (or more. in college. busy girl!) now she’s really got his attention–and they’ve both got mine. i’m like, psst! holly! doyouhearwhatthey’retalkingabout?? she’s like, huh? concentrating more on the dessert shimmering in front of us [and i don’t blame her. the espresso ice cream? TDF! (to die for)] than what’s being said next to us. i clue her in and she opens her eyes wide. i keep listening.
“how many times?”
(d’oh! missed that one. shoot.)
“wow. two guys?”
didn’t hear her response to this. didn’t hear much more, actually, since i was whispering everything to holly, who apparently couldn’t hear anything. (haha) i think their talk got much more scandalous b/c eventually their voices got pretty low, but he was all up her shiz. they were behind me, but in front of holly. on our way out, holly said from the looks of it, it seemed like maybe she was just after a free, fancy dinner. and hell, at a place like pazo, i don’t blame her.
but still. he was kinda pervy. i kept waiting to see if she was being tricked on a reality show or something, but alas, we left too soon to find out. (doubt it, tho. when was the last time they had a reality show in baltimore? yeah, exactly. not exactly a hotbed of reality tv over here.)
there’s no moral to this story, really. well, maybe there is: if you’re sitting in a fancy, quiet restaurant and want to talk about past threesomes and other salacious hookups, lower your voices, fer cryin out loud. or drink less. unless, of course, you want the journalist sitting next to you to write about it the next day on her blog. ijs.