Nice Counter Move, He’s Given This Some Thought

Sam and I have lunch at the Korean restaurant in Lonsdale Street. It's a favourite. It has tacky pop star, beauty model, game show type videos playing continuously on the large screen on the wall and Laminex tables, but the food is great.

“Spicy Pork, please,” I ask.

Sam looks at me as if to say what else would you have? I always have spicy pork. I can be a little bit, shall we say, "settled" in my culinary choices, some may say unadventurous, but, you know, when it ain't broke...

He rolls his eyes after he’d asks me to get cutlery, as he gets the water, when the only thing I came back with is chop sticks. Well, it’s an Asian restaurant, I think. You know, when in Rome... Seoul. Apparently, even they use spoons and serviettes. (icon with a wink) He has the cutest way of rolling his eyes, some may say that I is deliberately remiss in my accoutrement collection just to see that. (grin) Oh, I don’t know, there is something gratifying about being fussed over, even if it is as a result of an, apparently, mindless omission.

While we were eating, Mr Temperance League himself makes the startling admission of, actually, feeling the effect of the joint I personally fed him at dinner Sunday night at D’s. He tells me deadpan with a slight, coy smile just curling into the corner of his mouth. The usual story of not feeling anything followed with finger waggling, apparently, gave way to wanting to suggest that we headed upstairs for a moment, or two.

“Really?” I say. (Big smile) “So it does get in, huh?”

He smiles coyly, again, as though he’s said too much, let the genie out of the bottle that he knows he won’t have a hope of returning to its dark chamber. He knows that much with this line of conversation.

“So, you’ve changed your tune,” I add confidently, as we leave the restaurant. “So, I’m not going to get dumped any time soon for the gunger I might consume.”

"So you think that means it's okay?"

"Sure do, sunshine." I pull my cheekiest look. "Pretty damn confident."

He smiles.

“Welcome to the dark side, babe.”

He looks mock exasperated, but I catch the twinkle in his eye.

“And to think I felt guilty about influencing you to smoke it.”

“You know the problem I have with it is the health issue... you know, the smoking thing.”

“Oh, you’re lungs will still be shell pink...”

"But where will it lead to..."

"Spoken like the words were lifted directly from the Liberal Party fear pamphlet."

“And the cost... all that money.”

I raise my hands in the air. “Just occasionally.”

“It’s been every week for you.”

“Better than every day.”

He rolls his eyes again, but is still smiling. I get a little twinge at the utter cuteness of the facial movement and I can tell by the look on his face looking at me that he knows he has now lost on this issue. I put my arm around him in a self congratulatory show of affection to him, the looser. He smiles at me lovingly in recognition of his defeat.

We turn into Queen Street and are heading towards Bourke. I look at the time.

“Come on.” I take his hand.

“Where are we going?”

“You have to ask?”

“Oh,” he says.

We push through the revolving door. The foyer is busy with people, I do hope none are going to get in the way.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” I say, gazing at its unblemished green paintwork.

“It’s old.”

“No, it’s beautiful.”

Smile. “It’s old.”

“Just say it’s beautiful and we can leave.”

Eye twinkle. “It’s old.”

“You had better come around to the back and look then.”

He smiles and looks at me with his handsome face. “To see her fine lines.“

“The best vantage point to view her from... just like you.”

He smiles his warm smile, kind of looks at me through the tops of his eyes.

“You have to admit she’s beautiful.”

He tilts his head. “It’s old.”

“You’d better come around to the front then.”

“To pay our respect.”

I take him by the arm.

“To pay our respect, now you understand?” 

He smiles again.

I gesture with my hand, like a game show hostess, towards the front of the car, as we stand in front of it. I try to imagine that stylish front whirring along a sunny country road sparkling in the 1950’s sunlight, the sweet hum of the 6 cyl engine, the fine burble of the exhaust note as the trees waves at its passing, as the fallen leaves scatter across the bitumen behind it.

He smiles, as he stares straight ahead.

“Say she’s beautiful.”

“She’s old.”

I take him by the arm and guide him back towards Bourke Street.

“You have to admit it is beautiful. How can you not?”

“It’s...” the revolving door seals him into his compartment and spins him towards the street and I don’t hear the end of his sentence.

He is waiting on the foot path for me, I turn towards the office.

“Now, you have to come with me,” he says.

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

We walk to the edge of the RACV building and turn down the lane way next door. 

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

We walk down the gentle incline to Little Collins Street, and turn right.

“Just along here,” he says.

“Where?”

“Along here.”

We come to a stop in front of the French bakery, with exquisite delights in the window. Beautiful cakes. Gorgeous petite fours. Dazzling pastries.

“Now, look at these,” he says. “Aren’t they beautiful?”

I’m impressed. Nice counter move, he’s given this some thought. I look at him, he smiles. I think I like him even a little bit more.