Every Saturday, we’ll be posting a new illustration by David Lester. The Mecca Normal guitarist is visually documenting people, places and events from his band’s 26-year run, with text by vocalist Jean Smith.
I get to the Vietnamese restaurant first, wearing a black lace dress, high heels and stockings. Sterling arrives in jeans and a sweatshirt. This is the second time we’ve met and our first real date.
“You are very unique,” Sterling says while we wait for menus. “You must know that.”
“And here I thought I was doing a good job at being normal,” I say, joking, but feeling weird.
Sterling has a union job that he will stay in until retirement. He doesn’t do anything creative.
“I’m envious of your life,” he says. “I feel inferior to you.”
I have a sinking feeling, wondering what sort of consequences his feelings of inferiority will produce.
“I respect you, your intellect,” he says, as the waitress hands us menus. “I could learn a lot from you. You make me realize that my thoughts are mundane and that life is short. I don’t want to have regrets.”
“You said something in email about wanting to talk about your situation in person,” I say, changing the subject away from how crappy I am going to make him feel about himself.
“Yes, I wanted to tell you about it in person because it’s a bit unusual.”
“How so?”
“I live with a woman that I’m not involved with. She’s the co-owner of my house,” he says, licking his lips, looking into his empty water glass.
“You mean she’s your ex?” I ask.
“No, we’re friends.” Sterling puts his hands over his mouth, elbows resting on the table. “We bought the house together after we’d both ended long relationships. Neither of us thought we’d meet anyone again and we both wanted to own a house, so we bought it together when the market was in our favour.”
“So it’s a mortgage-sharing arrangement,” I say, wanting to see this as progressive.
“Right. I haven’t dated anyone since we bought the house, but we’ve both agreed to see other people.”
At my place, waiting for the water to boil for tea, Sterling says, “I told myself I wouldn’t let anything happen between us tonight.”
“Really?” I say, wanting to ask why, wishing he had let me know about this. I would have appreciated not putting myself in this position: all dressed up, very unique, intellectual, available and everything.
“It’s getting late,” he says. We’re both standing. He awkwardly pats my arm. A hug. Another pat on the arm. A tiny kiss. Another hug, his hands move down my back. A longer kiss. “I really have to go,” he says. Me thinking, “OK, so go.” He puts on his coat, reaches into a pocket and pulls out a chocolate bar. “Here,” he says. “Have this.” I take it, glance at the ingredients and put it down on my drawing table.
“Thanks,” I say, looking up to see that he’s crossed the room. He’s at the sliding door, ready to pull it open. Was the chocolate supposed to distracted me, to facilitate his escape? Did I make him feel inferior? Does him thinking I’m smart make him feel stupid? Should I have arrived at the Vietnamese place in T-shirt and jeans? Is the woman he lives with seeing other people?
