When I ordered the chicken salad, I was mid-conversation with the man who was more than a friend but not quite a boyfriend. It was a Sunday in late June, and we were two 40-something professionals sitting outside on a covered patio despite the heat and humidity. The pat-pat of rain on the tin roof added percussion to our intimate discussion about children, partners, mental health and futures.
He was sexy and honest and seemed to really get me, seeing through my vaguest statements with swift clarity. He listened, really listened, in the way you dream someone might when they truly care. It all made me like him even more.
But we were dwelling in ambiguity — a spark of a relationship that grew without really going anywhere. That was fine because neither of us felt ready for more.
That didn’t stop me from wanting it.
When our food arrived, I surveyed the plate of vibrant greens topped with a gray lump with dread. I knew I'd ordered it, but it wasn't at all what I wanted. I’d selected the dish thinking salad topped with grilled chicken instead of a lump of shredded meat adhered by an unholy mix of mayonnaise, celery and … is that relish? Why relish?
The salad was supposed to be my light dinner — something refreshing on a humid day.
It was not.
Had we talked about the weirdness of this dish on a previous almost-date? I think we did. I think we agreed it wasn’t appetizing. And yet, here it was. Again.
There was nothing really to be done. It was my mistake, not the restaurant’s, so I just went with it, figuring I’d survive eating chicken salad just once. Maybe I’d been missing something all along. Maybe it would surprise me and be perfect.
That’s not unlike how this man, who was maybe more than a friend but not quite a boyfriend, and I got together but didn’t. One meetup for a beer turned into another and then another. The nervous hellos of the first time gave way to the heat of mutual attraction and we continued in fits and starts. Maybe we’d both been missing something all along.