6 FEET APART

Fairy juice, I used to call it when I was a little girl, watching my mom pour her ritual glass of wine at 5pm. Now, my friend’s refer to it as “Jessica num nums.” It’s true, if someone asked me what my passion is at this very moment, I would simply reply, red wine. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been waiting for something to bump it down to second on my list of passions: a fulfilling career, someone to call “babe”. I’ve been thinking, everyone’s lucky in something, right? Unlucky in cards, lucky in parking. Unlucky in love, lucky in work. I don’t play cards, I can never find parking, and I’m currently working a thankless job as a restaurant inspector for the health department. So the love thing’s GOTTA work out. But when? And more importantly, HOW? How do you date from 6 feet apart? I’m 37 and getting uncomfortably comfortable with living alone. I need to go on a date before picking my nose becomes a habit I can’t break.

I look at the dashboard. Yeesh, I’m late! And get your finger out of your nose! My first big assignment and I daze off, lamenting my love life? “Pull yourself together,” I tell my reflection in the rear view mirror. I get out of my car, leaving it kissing the bumper in front of me, and run over to Account FD2492-3286A, or as the sign says, “Table Eight.” Inside, the restaurant is rustic and elegant, like an outdoor wedding. I’m more used to dive bars and donut shops. I sit at the bar, catching my breath, and help myself to a menu while I wait. My intuition guides me to the wine list. “Bright Cellars Merlot,” I comment to myself, “that sounds nice.”

“I can interest you in a glass?” I’m greeted by a beautiful man, 6 feet apart. He has dark brown hair and almond eyes. He reminds me of a young Marlon Brando. “I wish” I admit. He places a glass in front of me and leans forward as he pours, 5 feet apart. “You see,” he warns, “at Table Eight, wishes here come true.” His Italian accent tickles my ears. “I see that,” I laugh, “but unfortunately I’ll have to wait till I get home for this wish to come true.” I hate this part: “I’m Jessica, I’m with the Los Angeles Health Department and I will be inspecting your restaurant this evening.” I give him a sad smile, regretting that we hadn’t met under different circumstances. Oddly, he doesn’t seem phased. “I am Ottavio. And I am happy to have my restaurant inspected by you this evening!” And I think he actually means it. “That’s a very unique name. Does it have a meaning?” I inquire. “My parents were each the eight child in their families...it’s a long story. Sounds better with wine. Maybe you consider after,” he says through his devastatingly cute smile. I wish I had worn the blue dress today.

He follows me from station to station as I conduct my inspection; in the kitchen, 4 feet apart and behind the bar, 3 feet apart. I don’t mind. He doesn’t seem to be in a rush to go, even with the restaurant closed. And neither am I, I reflect. Instead, I wipe my hands and inform him, “Everything looks good up here. I’ll just check the storage area downstairs and we can be on our way.”

We ride the cargo elevator down, 2 feet apart. I can feel our energies swirling around each other in the metal box. The doors open. I begin looking for the usual leaks or rat droppings, but it’s immaculate. You could almost set up tables to dine down here. “I’ve seen everything I need to see. The inspection’s over,” I say begrudgingly. “What a pity,” he says, as he reaches past me to press the elevator button, 1 foot apart. He smells like fresh bread. I wish this night would never end. He hits the button again and again, but the doors won’t open. “Madonna,” he sighs, “I am sorry, but the door is stuck. I hope this doesn’t make me in a negative with the inspections.” I shake my head. “I already signed off, so anything that happens after this is completely personal.” I wince; that came out weird. “Aha,” he shrugs, “very personal because no one will be here until the morning.” So, this night ISN’T going to end? Maybe wishes DO come true at Table Eight. In that case, I know how these things work; they come in packs of three. That means I have one left. Well, there’s only ONE thing that would make this evening perfect.

I start feeling dizzy. The ground starts shaking. Boxes topple off shelves. Ottavio embraces me, protectively. “Earthquake!” he yells right as it ends. We at look at each other, 0 feet apart. Something knocks into our feet. He bends down and picks it up. “Looks as if to be a date,” he says, holding up the bottle. Bright Cellars Merlot. I smile; my last wish. He unpacks two new wine glasses from a box and lays a table cloth down on the floor for us to sit on. He takes a wine key from his apron and opens the bottle in one, swift move. Pouring with finesse, he begins: “So, my parents were each the eight child in their families...”