r>

“No thanks. I’ll just stay here and watch our stuff.” Why do women think they need company in the bathroom?
Alone at our table, I appreciate the last of the setting sun. The sky has changed from red to pink and from purple to lavender—even the glare off the ocean is just a glimmer. My sunglasses are unnecessary now, but if I’m lucky, they might shield others from my inquisitive glances, not stares, for another few moments. I position my head so that I can be looking at him, but appear like I am looking at the sliver left of the sun. I hope I am faking it well, because I can’t seem to take my eyes off him and the sun is finally down now. I set my sunglasses on the table and try to focus on what is left of the beaut

I‘m Southwest of downtown Los Angeles in a little beach town called Redondo. I'm in a typical beach hangout. There is nothing extraordinary about the dark wood siding on the exterior or mariner theme on the inside. However, Reuben's does have one amazing feature -it's built next to the jetty and has spectacular views out enormous windows.

It's late afternoon and the sun is low in the sky, yet it is still so bright the glare off the ocean is blinding. I need my sunglasses to look out the wall of glass. I know there are big fluffy clouds because the refracted light has created a photographer's dream in the sky - beautiful hues of reds, deep purples and oranges over the blue backdrop.

I come here every Friday night and I tell myself it’s for the free food. The hors d’oeuvre table is over flowing with chicken wings, meatballs, Cheddar, Gouda, smoked cheese and assorted crackers. The food looks appetizing except for the cheeses. I’m sure they started out dome-shaped, but by the time I partake, they look like munchkins have been sawing on the edges.

I’m drinking a Cuba Libre—rum, Coke and limejuice—occasionally with a wedge of lime. The aroma of the rum is so much better than the taste. A friend, Ruth, and a bowl of salted, unshelled peanuts share the table for four with me. I don’t feel much like talking so I listen to the soft music and loud conversations while relaxing and watching the setting sun. Later, after dark and when the band plays, the music will eclipse the conversations. “It’s your turn to go to the appetizer table.”
“What?”
“We need more food.”
I guess it wouldn’t do any good to tell Ruth how much I loathe walking to and from the hors d’oeuvre table. I am petrified of tripping in front of this crowded room.

“Are you going to get up or not?”
“I’m on my way.”
I start at the far end of the table of tidbits and work my way to the other end. I stop piling my small plate with goodies when a chill comes over me—I can hear my Mother saying ‘someone is talking about you.’ I look to my far left behind the bar and see three men sitting together at a round table. Two of the men are talking and intuition tells me that I am their subject matter. Maybe my Mother’s old saying is true. Just what I need, more justification for being terrified to walk the thirty feet to the safety of our table. Slowly and with trepidation, I head back to Ruth. I made it without tripping! “Do you see those three men behind the bar?”
“Yes.”
“Well?”

“Well, what?”
“What do you think of them?”
“I think they’re okay. The two guys at the table next to them are more my type.”
“What is your type? Never mind, Ruth, don’t answer that! How long have they been there?”

“They were there when we came in!”

“Are they still looking?”

“The one in the middle is staring. I’m going to the bathroom. Do you want to come with me?”

“No thanks. I’ll just stay here and watch our stuff.” Why do women think they need company in the bathroom?
Alone at our table, I appreciate the last of the setting sun. The sky has changed from red to pink and from purple to lavender—even the glare off the ocean is just a glimmer. My sunglasses are unnecessary now, but if I’m lucky, they might shield others from my inquisitive glances, not stares, for another few moments. I position my head so that I can be looking at him, but appear like I am looking at the sliver left of the sun. I hope I am faking it well, because I can’t seem to take my eyes off him and the sun is finally down now. I set my sunglasses on the table and try to focus on what is left of the beauti

ell myself it’s for the free food. The hors d’oeuvre table is over flowing with chicken wings, meatballs, Cheddar, Gouda, smoked cheese and assorted crackers. The food looks appetizing except for the cheeses. I’m sure they started out dome-shaped, but by the time I partake, they look like munchkins have been sawing on the edges.

I’m drinking a Cuba Libre—rum, Coke and limejuice—occasionally with a wedge of lime. The aroma of the rum is so much better than the taste. A friend, Ruth, and a bowl of salted, unshelled peanuts share the table for four with me. I don’t feel much like talking so I listen to the soft music and loud conversations while relaxing and watching the setting sun. Later, after dark and when the band plays, the music will eclipse the conversations. “It’s your turn to go to the appetizer table.”
“What?”
“We need more food.”
I guess it wouldn’t do any good to tell Ruth how much I loathe walking to and from the hors d’oeuvre table. I am petrified of tripping in front of this crowded room.

“Are you going to get up or not?”
“I’m on my way.”
I start at the far end of the table of tidbits and work my way to the other end. I stop piling my small plate with goodies when a chill comes over me—I can hear my Mother saying ‘someone is talking about you.’ I look to my far left behind the bar and see three men sitting together at a round table. Two of the men are talking and intuition tells me that I am their subject matter. Maybe my Mother’s old saying is true. Just what I need, more justification for being terrified to walk the thirty feet to the safety of our table. Slowly and with trepidation, I head back to Ruth. I made it without tripping! “Do you see those three men behind the bar?”
“Yes.”
“Well?”

“Well, what?”
“What do you think of them?”
“I think they’re okay. The two guys at the table next to them are more my type.”
“What is your type? Never mind, Ruth, don’t answer that! How long have they been there?”

“They were there when we came in!”

“Are they still looking?”

“The one in the middle is staring. I’m going to the bathroom. Do you want to come with me?”

“No thanks. I’ll just stay here and watch our stuff.” Why do women think they need company in the bathroom?
Alone at our table, I appreciate the last of the setting sun. The sky has changed from red to pink and from purple to lavender—even the glare off the ocean is just a glimmer. My sunglasses are unnecessary now, but if I’m lucky, they might shield others from my inquisitive glances, not stares, for another few moments. I position my head so that I can be looking at him, but appear like I am looking at the sliver left of the sun. I hope I am faking it well, because I can’t seem to take my eyes off him and the sun is finally down now. I set my sunglasses on the table and try to focus on what is left of the beaut

, the music will eclipse the conversations. “It’s your turn to go to the appetizer table.”
“What?”
“We need more food.”
I guess it wouldn’t do any good to tell Ruth how much I loathe walking to and from the hors d’oeuvre table. I am petrified of tripping in front of this crowded room.

“Are you going to get up or not?”
“I’m on my way.”
I start at the far end of the table of tidbits and work my way to the other end. I stop piling my small plate with goodies when a chill comes over me—I can hear my Mother saying ‘someone is talking about you.’ I look to my far left behind the bar and see three men sitting together at a round table. Two of the men are talking and intuition tells me that I am their subject matter. Maybe my Mother’s old saying is true. Just what I need, more justification for being terrified to walk the thirty feet to the safety of our table. Slowly and with trepidation, I head back to Ruth. I made it without tripping! “Do you see those three men behind the bar?”
“Yes.”
“Well?”

“Well, what?”
“What do you think of them?”
“I think they’re okay. The two guys at the table next to them are more my type.”
“What is your type? Never mind, Ruth, don’t answer that! How long have they been there?”

“They were there when we came in!”

“Are they still looking?”

“The one in the middle is staring. I’m going to the bathroom. Do you want to come with me?”

“No thanks. I’ll just stay here and watch our stuff.” Why do women think they need company in the bathroom?
Alone at our table, I appreciate the last of the setting sun. The sky has changed from red to pink and from purple to lavender—even the glare off the ocean is just a glimmer. My sunglasses are unnecessary now, but if I’m lucky, they might shield others from my inquisitive glances, not stares, for another few moments. I position my head so that I can be looking at him, but appear like I am looking at the sliver left of the sun. I hope I am faking it well, because I can’t seem to take my eyes off him and the sun is finally down now. I set my sunglasses on the table and try to focus on what is left of the beaut

subject matter. Maybe my Mother’s old saying is true. Just what I need, more justification for being terrified to walk the thirty feet to the safety of our table. Slowly and with trepidation, I head back to Ruth. I made it without tripping! “Do you see those three men behind the bar?”
“Yes.”
“Well?”

“Well, what?”
“What do you think of them?”
“I think they’re okay. The two guys at the table next to them are more my type.”
“What is your type? Never mind, Ruth, don’t answer that! How long have they been there?”

“They were there when we came in!”

“Are they still looking?”

“The one in the middle is staring. I’m going to the bathroom. Do you want to come with me?”

“No thanks. I’ll just stay here and watch our stuff.” Why do women think they need company in the bathroom?
Alone at our table, I appreciate the last of the setting sun. The sky has changed from red to pink and from purple to lavender—even the glare off the ocean is just a glimmer. My sunglasses are unnecessary now, but if I’m lucky, they might shield others from my inquisitive glances, not stares, for another few moments. I position my head so that I can be looking at him, but appear like I am looking at the sliver left of the sun. I hope I am faking it well, because I can’t seem to take my eyes off him and the sun is finally down now. I set my sunglasses on the table and try to focus on what is left of the beaut

r>

“No thanks. I’ll just stay here and watch our stuff.” Why do women think they need company in the bathroom?
Alone at our table, I appreciate the last of the setting sun. The sky has changed from red to pink and from purple to lavender—even the glare off the ocean is just a glimmer. My sunglasses are unnecessary now, but if I’m lucky, they might shield others from my inquisitive glances, not stares, for another few moments. I position my head so that I can be looking at him, but appear like I am looking at the sliver left of the sun. I hope I am faking it well, because I can’t seem to take my eyes off him and the sun is finally down now. I set my sunglasses on the table and try to focus on what is left of the beautiful sky.

“I’m going to get another drink,” Ruth announces.
“I thought you were going to the bathroom.”
“I’m back! Drink?”

“What?”

“Do you want another drink?”

“Oh, yes please. I’ll pay you when you get back.”
I wish I could get a closer look at him; I’d like to know his height and eye color. I can see he has a mustache and curly hair just like mine. Oh, he’s perfect, from across the room anyway. He’s standing up. He’s coming this way. No, he’s not. Damn! He's carrying a plate. He can't be coming over to our table. Filled with a mix of relief and regret I watch him sample a little of everything from the appetizer table. “Here’s your drink.”
“What?”

“Your drink!”

“Thank you, but you’re blocking my view.”
“Of what?”
“The sky.”
“It’s dark now!”
“Oh!”
“Where’s my money?”
I fumble with my purse and finally find my cash. “Here.”
“What? No tip?”

She couldn’t have come back at a worse time. I continue watching. He slowly moves toward their table. He’s tall. His shoulders are wide; he could be a football player. I hope not, I don’t like football.
“Where are you?”

“What do you mean?”
“What a conversationalist. You’ve barely said twenty words in the last hour.”
“I’m just thinking.”
“About what?”
“Clothes!”

“Yeah, and I’m watching the sky, too!” I hate it when she interrupts my voyeurism. I’m thinking about clothes—his clothes! He a casual type of man from the look of his Levi’s and his rolled-up, long sleeve shirt.

He’s getting up. No, all three of them are getting up. They’re leaving! Double damn! They walk a few steps and start to talk. Maybe, they’re not leaving. They stand there for a few minutes and then the shorter, dark-haired man turns to leave. The other two are walking toward our table.

The room heats up and I hear a noise. Thump, thump! Thump, thump! Where is that noise coming from, I wonder? My heart feels like a sledge hammer hitting the inside of my chest as I try to catch my breath. I’m making that noise! As he gets closer, I wonder, how it’s possible to want to meet him so badly and feel physical ill at the same time. I feel lightheaded and dizzy. I’m going to die of a heart attack before he even gets across the room. Maybe, he isn’t even coming to our table. What if he’s been looking at someone else? I turn around to see who’s trying to steal my man. “Excuse me, may we join you?”
I turn, but I can’t say a thing. My mouth feels like I just stuffed a wad of cotton candy in it and its not melting.
“Sure, sit down,” Ruth says.
My mind is racing as fast as my heart. I gulp down a big, burning swallow of the rum hoping to find my voice. I cough, instead.
“I’m Hal and this is Roland.”

I nod, but still can’t speak!
“I’m Ruth and this