Sushi
by Todd Lillethun
Last Saturday I had sushi with this guy I really wanted to impress. I had not had sushi in awhile. I like sushi, but I am otherwise not a fan of exotic food. Escargot. Frogs legs. Fish eggs. Stuff like that makes me shiver. But sushi is OK. Tuna, salmon, eel, even some of the fishy smelling stuff is not so bad. Mackerel. When it's all swirled in rice and seaweed and mixed with cucumber and horseradish, you can hardly taste it. But that night, something just did not agree with me.
We were talking about work. He's an accountant and hates his job. I'm dishing about strange customers, weird clothing lines, scary fitting room experiences. I smile a lot, vary my vocal inflections-because I don't want him to think I'm just another retail queen. I actually know what I'm doing and like what I do. If it bores him, or if I come on too strong, I change the topic. Books, movies, travel, wine. Even if he might have heard all this before, I try to keep it fresh and interesting, juice up the presentation, to make him think he hadn't. I'm a fashionista, after all. And I really want to impress him.
He's very hot. I'd seen him at the gym for a full two years. I used to stare at him shamelessly, but always from a distance, because I thought for sure he was straight. Then at Sidetrack, I saw him. I'm like, what the fuck, he's gay? Then he started checking me out. After two years of ogling this guy, I suddenly came into existence for him. Surprising but not really. There's plenty of mirrors at the gym and though there's plenty of people he's only scoping himself out, checking out his arms, his shoulders, his chest. I don't fault him for it. If I had a body like that, well.
So we start talking. I buy him a beer. Three beers, actually. Not as dumb as I expected. Not dumb at all, really. That's just me being cynical. He's got a real job, a real personality, and up close he looks even better. I manage to hold it together pretty well. You know how outside you stay cool but inside you're shaking and sweating? Yeah. We talk about the crowd, the scene, general getting-to-know-you stuff, and I'm trying to get him drunk, to see what he's really like, but he holds his liquor like a champ. I, meanwhile, feel myself slipping. His eyes are getting bluer, his hair shinier, and his chin and shoulders more chiseled and straight. He answers questions directly and simply. You can see he's a total gentleman. You can see, too, with his restraint and his cool, how he would have a mind for numbers. I give him my number before I lose my nerve, and he gives me his. We kiss each other good-bye, real quick and chaste on the lips, and I walk home hovering ten feet over the sidewalk. I stare intently at the piece of paper in my hand. I can't believe it. He curls his J a little, and it's so adorable to me. A mathematician curling the first letter of his name.
I call him two days later, you know, so as not to seem over anxious, and we make a date. Sushi was his idea. He says he's a hamburger and fries man, but we both decide to take this chance.
It's a small place on Diversey with only six tables and one overworked waitress, the wife of the chef, I suspect; he works behind the bar with a bandana around his head, and she carries large earthenware plates with her skinny little arms. She clears a table for us and we have sake and egg drop soup. The place is full of older straight couples and young college kids wearing flip-flops. He's a total gentleman to the waitress, and he's wearing this Banana shirt I could've killed him for. He may be a jock, but he's not without taste. We talk about work, like I said, but initially the conversation doesn't come easy. He seems skeptical, like he's not sure he wants to be there, as if he's having second thoughts, and I'm wondering if he was indeed drunk when we exchanged numbers.
Then there's a point in the conversation where he's trying to think of a word, and I say it for him. A short time later he says exactly what I'm thinking, and I smile and tell him so. Then there's a moment where we look at each other like this is the start of something very special. A slight nod, a glancing wink. And the butterflies swell up, tickling my insides. It's almost too much.
The fish comes, and after eating the Maki the butterflies return, a fierce batting around. I start to laugh, but then I choke. At first I think it's, you know, sentiment. But the laughter stops midway, and I realize no, this is not funny. And I feel the fish coming back up. He looks at me seriously, and my expression must have been unpleasant. Stricken. I'm wrestling with it—I grab the table, jam myself back in the chair, and the look on his face is of dawning terror, his color fading and his posture shrinking into his nice Banana shirt. The pressure against the back of my throat is a wave breaking against the rocks. I wait a full ten seconds to answer, sweat running down my face, and I'm thinking, should I make a break for it? Run out the door and get some air? My stomach jumps hard, quick as lightning and just as sharp. Once I think it's passed, I smile and say, "I'm fine." Only it kicks again on my last syllable, and everything I ate that day comes out. Shoots like dragon fire. Splatters the table and splashes him and the couples on either side. A woman screams. The waitress drops her plates. Everyone abandons their tables and hustles out the door. The chef starts to yell, and I toss down a twenty. We run out of there fast.
The fresh air feels good. I'm exhausted, sweating. He wipes himself off with a napkin and takes off his puke stained shirt. He says, "Are you OK?" His T-shirt is form-fitting and he looks terrific. I say, "Yes, I feel much better." I apologize profusely. I ingratiate myself to him. He says, "Let's take you home." I think, OK. This date is over. But I cling to the idea of kissing him. Of moving past our chaste kiss and at least making an attempt for first base. I know, it's awful. Pathetic. To expect him to kiss me after something like that. Still, I say, "We can hang at my place if you want; we could skip the movie and watch TV."
But no, he takes me home and insists on putting me to bed. I think, no, no, please stay and let's sit on the couch. I don't need to go to bed. Then I think, yes, yes, take me to bed. Maybe this is a ploy on his part, too. To affect the gentle nurse only to give in to his most base instinct. So I let him take me to bed. He pulls back the covers, tells me to get undressed. I strip down to my T-shirt and underpants, and he brings me a glass of water. "Drink this," he says. I drink the whole thing. I drink it quickly and get the hiccups. His eyebrows raise and he shakes his head. A real sad case, he's thinking. I sit there with an empty glass in my ugly T-shirt and sagging underpants, putting on my best "poor me" face, the one I wore for my mother when I wanted sympathy so maybe I could stay home from school, a disgusting ploy, I admit, so shamelessly unpacked for this moment here. Maybe then he'd hold me. Maybe he'd stroke my head. Maybe he'd undress and crawl in beside me, and I'd put my head on his chest and paw him softly and cry sweet tears of gratitude.
But he doesn't fall for it. He pulls back the covers and I crawl in, and he turns out the light and heads for the door. I say, "Call me tomorrow." He says, "Yes, I will." And he does, because he's a gentleman, but I can tell from his voice that he won't call again.
Todd Lillethun insists that he never puked in a sushi restaurant—this is a work of fiction, OK? Originally from Oconomowoc, Wisconsin, Todd lives in Chicago. His writing has appeared in UR Chicago, In These Times, FilmMonthly.com and The Oak. Todd performed "Sushi" in the NewTown Writers Working Stiffs 4 in June, 2005.
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