We didn't
sleep that
night, just
tumbling around an
expensive hotel room,
laughing and
crying and
screaming for joy and
doing it some more. I went for a long walk around 6:00 AM, the
rising sun warm on my face, watching golden light play on one of the
Great Lakes as a man practiced
tai chi by the
water. When I returned,
she was sitting in a chair by the window, looking out. She rose, and
kissed me sweetly, and said "Let's go out for
breakfast."
We went to this little French café in the heart of Evanston, quiet and tastefully decorated. We were the only people there, and our hands twined on the table as we waited for the waiter. He turned out to be a small, pretty, flamingly gay man, who she took great delight in.
And that was when I ordered IT.
"I'd like a six-egg omelette with sour cream, salsa, jalapenos, ham, bacon, sausage, cheddar cheese, swiss cheese and ketchup."
She, and the waiter, perfect simultinaety: "Are you INSANE?"
"...Uh. Yes?"
She swatted me. The waiter sat down and chattered animatedly with her, devoting a great deal of time to mocking my taste in food...
It arrived. "EWW!" she said when she saw it, "I'm not kissing you until you brush your teeth after eating that thing!". I ate it all up. It was the best omelette I have ever had. Hey, I needed my protein. And we went back to the hotel room and did it all over again. But she never let me forget... about the omelette of insanity.
That was almost two and a half years ago, now. We never saw each other again, and I hear she's blissfully happy in New York City with a nice boy. And I've found someone I click with better, as well. But there is much to be said for nostalgia, and six-egg omelettes with every ingredient on the menu, which give you the stamina to keep going.