“No,” I respond.
“I know you always said you wanted to live a life without regrets.”
“I figure that's a pretty common thing to want. It's difficult to realize, but it's common.”
She smiles. The waiter appears before she has a chance to respond. “Do you know what you're going to have?” she asks. A long droning song comes from my mouth. “It's okay. I know what you like.”
She speaks to the waiter in French again — lofty, vowel-ridden, and prone to making anyone look like a pretentious jackass when speaking it, provided it is not a first language. They laugh. It's clearly at my expense. He glances back to me with Alpha male derision before leaving. I cannot hide my indignation.
“What?”
“Did you have to order for me?”
“I know what you like.” Caesura. “Look, everything on the menu is good. Don't get upset.”
“I'm not upset. I just would have liked the opportunity to order for myself.”
“Don't be like that. You're just frustrated with your little Coprolalia business.”
“No, I'm upset because you suddenly have no respect for me.”
“Jesus,” she exhales. “What the hell has gotten into you? Why are you so…why are you jumping down my throat?”
“I'm not; I just don't like being treated like a fucking child.”
“I know the best things on the menu. You're going to like what I got you. Don't be so testy about it.” She sips from her glass. “Besides, I know how indecisive you can be when it comes to food.”
“You'd get way more upset if I ordered for you.”
“That's different.”
“How the fuck is it any different?” A man from the next table eyes me. “It impugns your freedom.”
“Impugns? Really? Impugns? Why do you have to use that word?”
“It's a perfectly common word. You clearly know what it means.”
“That's not the point.”
We continue to stare to one another until the busboy removes the plate of mussel shells and the bowl filled with the admixture in which they had previously been swimming. “Let's just drop it, okay. We are two adults; we are perfectly capable of a civil conversation.”