The Flying Table

The Smiths “There’s a Light That Never Goes Out” sounds from the speakers. Dim candlelight, cognac leather chairs with red velvet cushions, crimson painted walls lined with black and white portraits of 80’s music legends. The waiter sets down a warm ceramic plate of steaming hot vodka rigatoni. Instead of the familiar, how little of this can I eat to look like I’m starving, I think: come to mama. I scrape a few hot-pink noodles onto my plate, then hers. She dives in, and narrates my thoughts.

“Can I just eat this straight out of the bowl?”

I smile, nodding. Our hands find each other under the table like pretzels. She plays with a strand of my hair. We lock eyes.

Our table starts shaking. An earthquake? The velvet melts beneath my seat. The blood red walls cave in. My ears ring. The music stretches like chewing gum into a single note. Did silence always have a sound?

She leans in, her lips part, her tongue finds mine. Our hair whips around our faces like we’re hanging our heads out of a car on the freeway. Napkins, coats, umbrellas spiral into the air like confetti. An invisible giant’s hand tears the table legs from the floor like roots from earth. We lift off.

For a moment, there’s stillness. We levitate in the eye of the wind tunnel while the restaurant spins around us. Then the roof tears open.

We shoot into the starry sky, still glued to each other. The white tablecloth flaps in the cold fall air, pregnant with change. We close our eyes like blinds. Raindrops tap against our skin like window glass. We’re safe inside. The table carries us deeper into the night until I can’t tell where our bodies end and the sky begins.

“Thank you for dining with us.” The check arrives, and so do we.