Lucinda Kempe
Small Pink Cherries
“The hostess has hair like Marilyn Monroe,” her mother had said the first time they came to the restaurant followed by “How sad the way she died.” She shook the dark thought from her mind. She smiled. Her braces were gone. Tonight, she felt ready for change. She’d trained in from Long Island and drawn her long dark hair into an updo for the occasion. It was a night to celebrate—an eighteenth birthday dinner alone in Manhattan. “Go to a nice place, dress up, and celebrate your success with your own money,” her art teacher had suggested.
“I don’t have a reservation,” she said, giving her full name.
“Such a pretty name,” said the hostess, a young woman a bit older than herself, “You must be Greek?”
“Yes,” she said, thinking of her mother. “I’m half Greek.”
“It’ll be a ten-minute wait. You can have a seat at the bar.”
‘Not the bar!’ All that alcohol. She hated liquor. The bartender placed a napkin on the counter. “May I get you something to drink, Miss?”
Her mother had suggested she try a glass of wine. “Something sparkling,” her mother had said.
“I’ll have a Shirley Temple, a little ice,” she said, ordering what her mother ordered to pretend she was still drinking.
“One Shirley Temple coming up!”
The mirror behind the bar reflected the diners at the tables. Six-thirty; the place was jammed. Plaster narwals and dolphins painted blues and greens frolicked on the walls; looking at them made her feel like a sea creature swimming in an aquarium. She thought about the artist who’d made them—what a cool job. In a few weeks, she’d be going upstate to school, on a scholarship, to study art and ceramics, but the thought was scary. How could she keep up with those competitive young artists? Last spring, her mother had accompanied her to an internship interview at MOMA, a job she hadn’t gotten, because it made her anxious. All those sophisticated city girls with Botoxed lips who talked fast and mingled as if they’d known each other forever, which they hadn’t. Then afterwards at the restaurant, her mother had made her feel foolish for ordering the pricey bottle of sparkling water, which was ridiculous because her mother was high maintenance.
“Your drink, Miss,” said the bartender. “Let me know how it is.”
The grenadine matched the red cherry. It was a pretty drink, and she sipped. The hostess glided over. Her eyes followed the lines of her legs. In her mind’s eye, she drew one leg black and the other white.
“A table has opened up in the back,” said the hostess.
“I’d like to stay away from the kitchen,” she said.
Last time, they’d gotten a table near the servers and her mother had complained.
The hostess smiled approvingly. “It’ll be a bit longer then.”
A group of men in their late twenties, well-dressed but casual, entered the restaurant interrupting her thoughts. They barreled to a table in the middle of the room. Waiters flitted around them, pulling out chairs. Regulars. All three were good-looking and her stomach jumped. She’d had crushes but never had a boyfriend. She wasn’t sure how she felt about men. Tonight, certainly wasn’t about them.
“Miss, your table is ready,” said the hostess.
She felt the men’s eyes on her and the hostess as they made their way to a table near the French doors opening to the street. The menu was all in Italian. The waiter arrived with a small plate of hor d’oeuvres and a glass of champagne.
“Pink champagne courtesy of the gentleman,” he said, gesturing to the men whose eyes had followed her.
“Excuse me,” she said, pointing to the glass, “Doesn’t it usually come in a different shape?
“A flute. The gentleman asked for the coupe. He said the lady would require it.”
“Thank you. I’ll have the Bolognese,” she said.
‘The lady would require it? OMG, they’re too young to be boomers,’ she thought, suppressing a laugh. The shallow, saucer-shaped glass made the alcohol shimmer. Ignoring the drink, she nibbled the bread and tapenade. One of the men, tall with cobalt eyes, his shirt opened to the third button, pulled up a chair next to her.
“You remind me of Taylor Swift,” he said. “I hope you like the champagne.”
She blotted her lips with the napkin. He was handsome but so intrusive.
“Thank you, but I’m celebrating on my own,” she said, signaling the hostess who glided over as if she was skating on ice.
“Isn’t her hair divine? Just like Marilyn Monroe in Gegege no Kitarô,” she said, visualizing the vampire who’d been modeled after the original.
The man sprang up and returned the chair to its empty place beside her.
“Is everything okay?” asked the hostess.
“Perfect.”
She watched the hostess glid off. Her mother had been correct about how beautiful she was. Later, she’d render her in a fuchsia mini dress with one black and one white leg and a tiara of diamonds. After her mother’s comment about Monroe, she’d found a YouTube clip of the actress descending a staircase surrounded by suitors who she didn’t care for at all. It made her realize the power of agency.
She finished eating and paid the bill with babysitting money. When she arose, she didn’t acknowledge the men, whoever they were. Exiting the French doors the wind kissed her checks; her tongue ran over her teeth savoring the absence of metal. Outside she hailed a cab and took it to Penn station.
Inside the restaurant, the bubbles in her drink like small pink cherries, tangoed to the surface and popped.
Original artwork, Milk and Honey, by Lorette C. Luzajic.
Lucinda Kempe’s work is forthcoming in Salvage (China Miéville editor), The Summerset Review, SoFloPoJo, Unbroken Journal, Bull, Does It Have Pockets, Gooseberry Pie, New Flash Fiction Review, and Centaur, among other places. An excerpt of her memoir was short listed for the Fish Memoir Prize in April 2021. She lives on Long Island where she exorcises with words.
Lorette C. Luzajic is a writer, artist, editor, and educator. She is the founding editor of The Ekphrastic Review. Her award-winning mixed media visual art has been collected in 40 countries so far. Visit her at www.mixedupmedia.ca.
