a friday night

He sits on the back porch at the Beach Comber, alone, at a table for two, cooled by the warm breeze that blew in with the sunset. Ice water with a slice of lime. Grilled chicken sandwich. Stars to the left sparkle the black sky; fireworks to the right, out across the boulevard, spackle it. A man at the next table orders in Spanish for all four of the diners. They don’t understand what is “Caesar salad.” He grunts, a bit. The other man, the watcher, feels satisfyingly unencumbered. He begins to wonder if being solitary might not be a good thing. There are tradeoffs, he understands. But at the very least he does not have to explain to his companions what it is they are about to eat. He sups on the sandwich spiced with pineapple and accompanied by homemade potato chips dusted with parmesan cheese. A slender blonde across the way catches his eye. She smiles; he smiles back. She is with her husband. The subtle assignation is a bit enthralling, or at least enough for this night. It is a dark walk to the car, what with the fireworks done, but he doesn’t mind.