strike that

beans & bellini

Joshua turned thirty-one yesterday, so tonight we filled up a table at Montego Bay and passed plates of jerk chicken and curry goat and gungo peas and plantains. It’s a not particularly popular restaurant on a rather forlorn corner, but inside the walls are hot pink and lime green and the drinks come in similar shades. The meal was delicious and the rum was overproof and the company was grand. We could have sat for hours sipping coconut cocktails and spooning out second helpings of plum pudding, but at quarter to seven the birthday guy and I bid farewell to the crew and ran ten blocks east to the opera.

A couple months back Joshua and I had talked about seeing Norma, the Portland Opera’s February offering. Operaman and I haven’t swapped a word since December, when we had a seemingly earnest really, let’s definitely keep in touch No Really sort of email exchange, just before he disappeared completely. But I still like the opera, and it hardly seems creepy to go if I sit in the balcony and can’t even pick him out from the other company members. And then three days ago, the day after I write the Dear Operaman post on this very blog that I’m almost certain he doesn’t read (do you Operaman?), I find an envelope clipped to my mailbox with two tickets inside.

Since ambiguity seems to be the m.o. of most of my recent relationships with men, I didn’t even bother trying to figure out why he does not want to talk to me but does want to leave me small unsigned mailbox booty. Whatever. If I’ve learned anything about ambiguous people of late it’s that they’re just waiting for you to decry the ambiguity. That way they can get annoyed at you for being needy instead of actually dealing with the mess. So I sent a Thank You and we went to the opera. I think Joshua had a good birthday.

posted by tortaluga @ 1:03 AM