Page 11 of Spencer's Satisfaction
“Ah, that’s my actual last name,” he throws over his shoulder as we separate to allow the maître d’ to lead us through the maze of occupied tables to our own. “I have a couple of, uh, I guess you’d call them stage names? Rhodes is the one I use for the…um…more risqué stuff.”
Spencer’s hand becomes a distracting presence on the small of my back as we fall into a single file line, with him urging me to follow the maître d’ first. I’m glad my date can’t see the flush of my face, because I’m back to being embarrassed over fanboying over him. Especially now that I know for sure he’s aware of the kind of books I like to listen to.
Once we’re seated, I finally take in the space around us. For lack of a better description, the restaurant is quirky kitsch. It’s dimly lit; enough to see properly, but with a darkened sort of ambiance. The walls are open brickwork, and there are random decorations hung around the room. I can see a hopefully faux taxidermy fox wearing a plaid waistcoat. A rabbit with antlers and thick, black framed glasses. Edison bulbs and chandeliers and empty Baroque photo frames painted in neon colors.
The tables and chairs are equally eclectic with none of them in matching sets. I see timber and wrought iron in a mishmash of styles from various eras, with watermarks and scuff marks and chipped surfaces. It’s almost like a thrift store threw up in here, but every item somehow feels right for the space.
It’s very hipster, I guess.
I can feel Spencer’s gaze on me and I tear my eyes away from my exploration to look at him.
“What do you think?” he asks, leaning forward across the scuffed timber surface that separates us. “Have you been here before?”
I shake my head. “No, this is a first for me,” I admit, then cast my eyes around the room again. “It’s different.”
“Ouch,” Spencer holds a hand to his chest, “Euphemisms already?””
“No, no,” I rush to assure him, cursing myself for letting him think that I don’t like it, “I don’t mean it in a bad way. I…I just don’t get out much.”
And I’ve never been good at subtlety or tact. I usually just say what I’m thinking. The only place I’ve really been able to prevent myself from doing so is at work, and that’s because I make myself stick to a formulated script in my head. The only time I’ve really gone off script has been with Spencer, and now I have no idea what I’m doing.
I close my eyes against the embarrassment of admitting what a loser I am within the first five minutes of our date. I mean, pathetic much? Yes, I am blushing profusely now. Yes, I do wish the ground would open up and swallow me whole.
“Hey,” Spencer’s voice is soft and his hand touches mine, making me startle. I blink across the table at him and he gives me a reassuring smile, cocking his head almost like a puppy might. “I was just teasing. I don’t get out much, either. And this place is…something else.” He tilts his head back, exposing the long, pale column of his neck, and laughs. “Is that a wolf wearing a sheepskin hat?”
I look up and, sure enough, suspended from the ceiling -between the chandeliers- is a wolf wearing a woolly bonnet. “Yeah…” I draw the word out, half-amused, half-confused. When I look back at Spencer, he’s rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish expression.
“So, I didn’t choose this place,” he admits, shaking his head. “Kate and Cherie, uh, friends of mine did.”
“Maybe the food is awesome?” I offer, lifting my menu for the first time.
“God, I hope so, or Cherie’s got a lot to answer for.” There’s fondness in his threat, so I don’t think he’s actually going to give his friends too much shit if the place turns out to be a bust.
As I scan the menu, I have to admit that it sounds good. Gourmet burgers and wings appear to be the main attractions here, and a glance around the room at other diners’ plates is even more encouraging.
Because that’s another thing: I’m fussy about food. Still, most places usually have something on the menu I’m comfortable ordering (even if a lot of the time it’s the kid’s menu and I get weird looks from the servers). Thankfully, this place has a lot of options that sound appealing, even to my limited palate, and that sets me at ease a bit more.
“Share platter?” Spencer suggests, pointing at the option that’s caught his eye. He shrugs at me and grins. “I can’t choose, so sliders, fries and two kinds of wings sounds kind of awesome to me.”
I put my laminated piece of paper down and nod. “Perfect.”
A server saunters over almost at the exact same moment Spencer drops his menu on the table. She’s dressed in a short, red and black plaid skirt, a short-sleeved white button down and a neon green waistcoat. I blink a couple of times at the ensemble and then realize that it seems to fit the vibe of the place. She’s friendly as she introduces herself as Mandy, but not flirtatious, which I appreciate. She asks for our drink orders first, then nods when Spencer tells her we’re getting the share platter.
“I know I’m s’posed to upsell you on dessert,” she says, leaning forward conspiratorially, “but if you’re plannin’ on savin’ room for it, I’d suggest you go to the dessert bar down the street. It just opened up last month, and oh-my-Gawd, their boozy thick-shakes are out of this world, and they make a mean brownie sundae, too.”
“Good to know,” Spencer grins and hands back our menus. When she’s gone, he turns to me and says, “We’d better listen to the lady, huh?”
I probably shouldn’t get all giddy about the fact that he’s suggesting dessert already, but it’s a good sign, right? He’s planning on dragging the night out, not trying to rush us out the door and back to our respective homes alone.
“Sounds like a plan to me,” I agree, willing my heart not to beat so fast.
My date is thankfully oblivious to my nerves, and he leads the conversation with a casual ease I’m actually a little jealous of.
We’ve texted a lot over the last few days, so he knows the basics about me, and I know the same about him.
He’d already told me that he was bi, but during the week he sent me a message asking if I was okay with that. I was perplexed by the question. I mean, just because he’s attracted to women as well as men (and, presumably, intersex or gender fluid people as well), it doesn’t make him any more or less predisposed to wandering eyes…or other parts of his anatomy, for that matter. And, when I responded as such, the reply containing a flurry of cat emojis with hearts in their eyes told me that my answer had pleased him somehow.
Other things I’ve learned from our texting have been less intense. He’s thirty-six, so only eight years older than me, and lives on his own with his cat. He grew up here with his two brothers, and chose a career where his work could be completed literally anywhere in the world, as long as he has access to the right equipment.
