Dinner in the Desolate Light

“It’s dark outside but the lighting,” Johhny said, “makes this place look desolate.” The place was Kabizza, a little mediterranean restaurant in Tempe. I wouldn’t say it looked “desolate,” but the tile floors, stained fabric booths, and dim lighting certainly provided a humble atmosphere. It was a few days before my scheduled wisdom teeth removal. A last supper, per say. “Yeah, I’m getting 8 teeth out,” I explained. “8?” Johnny looked incredulous. Every time I told someone the story of my wizzies I got a reaction like this. It was always a face of shock, then a slight look of pity. It amused me, it comforted me. If only I could take everyone’s faces to the operating room, to have everyone’s pity as a cushion while the dentist yanked my teeth out.

For my meal I had loaded chicken fries. I told the cashier no white ranch. She said they didn’t use white ranch. When I got the fries they were smeared with what appeared to be white ranch. But maybe it was that garlic sauce she was talking about. Whatever.

The fries were mid. I mean, the actual fries themselves were good, crispy. But the chicken was plain and there was too much sauce. I felt very heavy after eating. I gathered all the ranch in a goopy pile and accidently flicked it onto my jeans. Damnit! My favorite Old Navy jeans too.

Dinner with Johnny was good though. He got lamb (?), rice, and hummus which looked better than my plate to be honest. He has a whole sleeve of tattoos on his arm and recently got some on his leg, but I couldn’t see it that day because it “wasn’t finished.” Bummer! I like hanging out with Johnny. He is one of maybe three people I’ve befriended in Arizona that is not a work colleague. It was through Discord, in an Arizona based community. I posted that I needed a roommate and promptly forgot. When I checked my messages three months later, I saw his request. I already had a roommate, but I needed more friends, so I asked if we could be friends. And now we’re friends. We hang out on a strict cadence of once a month, no more, no less. I like this predictableness, a calming constant in the chaos.

“When I get these teeth out,” I said as we departed, “I’m throwing a party.” It was a snap judgement. I needed something to look forward to, something to motivate me. I imagined it on the drive home. I’d call it “Erika’s reintegration party,” or “Erika’s homecoming.” There’d be lots of food, only junk food, like pizza and cookies. I’d catchup with everyone I’d promised to hang out with “post-wisdom teeth removal.” My wisdom teeth hovered like a shadow over me, a haunting - “Enjoy your meal! you won’t be eating this for months! Years! Decades!” I’m overexaggerating, I know, but I did eat and eat anyway, garlic noodles, orange chicken, cupcakes, tikka masala, yogurt granola bars, fries, fried rice, beef skewers, I had an excuse to eat like a child. “I’m tired of eating!” I declared. “Time for my liquid diet!”