Breakfast, Twice

...you smell like cinnamon. How do you do that?....

Find my way into the dining room, following the scent of fresh coffee. For my gustatory pleasure, a plate full of fruit crepes. Did I tell him I love crepes? No. Somehow psychic? Perhaps. My favorites, raspberry, strawberry and mango. Served with cocoanut milk, and delicious, life-affirming elixir, coffee. The children eat pancakes with syrup. Pedantic, but satisfying. There are a dozen red roses on the table. Have I mentioned I love breakfast?

Steve needs me, so I work frantically to finish early, which I don't. Still, a sense of accomplishment accompanies my e-mailed attachments, the feeling that I have not been a complete flake. Partial flake is all my ego can handle. Or should, especially today.

Coco arrives to pick me up for our tandem pedicures, which include a whirlpool footbath and heated massaging chair. Perhaps this is standard procedure, but when I used to go to the beauty school, I sat in a dryer chair, head bumping against the plastic space helmet, while an overly processed teenage dirtbag scrubbed at one of my feet, while the other soaked in a harvest gold colored dishpan. Footpan. Sure.

We pick up film at the one hour photo ("We did this last year, too," she says. Yes. View Thru Quarter Pane shots, for publicity in the paper. I loved the one that CityPaper ran.)These are less important, but more diverse.

Home in time to change for my date. He is impressed with the dress, which is red. "Too much?"

"Or maybe not enough," he agrees, checking the hemlength. And takes me to our favorite Chinese restaurant.

The bar we've chosen for further celebration has loud music, but upstairs, unclaimed pool tables. We commandeer one and take turns proving to one another how much we suck.

"Don't take this the wrong way."

What?

"Day-umn!"

He likes the dress.

The Prince tells me that during my game against Birthday Boy, players at the other tables stopped when it was my turn to shoot. "Mmm, and now that That Girl and I are shooting against one another, no one can play at all." Those snakeskin pants might not be painted on, but probably are.

Tekchik shows up, lured by cellphone with the promise of That Girl. Coco is monopolized by That Girl's date. Tekchik's biker gal friend joins us, unfazed by theatrics. Mesmerized by her skin art, I cannot resist touching. She kindly permits. Tekchik plays against That Girl, whose handicap is mitigated by serious coaching from Hawk. She leans, snuggles into him, batting lashes and crinkling nose. He rolls his eyes and grins. Sparky buys beers for me, drinks enough to be coaxed into a game or two against Hawk. They re-bond.

That Girl has drunk too much too fast. "I'm taking her home to have sex with her, " her date promises. Lucky girl. Lucky guy. After her departure, the room is less interesting. I'm hungry. We head out, and The Animal joins us for breakfast.

Over coffee, beer, burgers, omelets, he touches Coco, and she giggles. Unreasonable to feel neglected.

If this day wasn't perfect, it came close. I've gotten serious mileage out of "You have to kiss me."