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Torres Estevan Torres Mr. Neuberger Eng. Comp.

101-137 29 September 2011 Descriptive Essay Dinner for One The cold chill that comes with Decembers deviance chokes him, sending giant goose bumps up Randys right arm. Exiting the dingy yellowish taxi and entering the busy block,

Randy feels like a lost puppy that just escaped the yard. He stands silently, twisting tongues, and talking to himself. As he tries to figure out his next move as if it were some type of trigonometry equation, Randy removes a small sliver of green gum, perfectly packaged in a shiny aluminum sleeve from within his pant pocket. As he stands staring off into the city lights, lost and alone downtown, carnivorously chewing his gum, Randy takes his first step towards the towering building tops in which his destination hides. Each sign Randy reads is like trying to interpret some native dance from a country he has never been to. He plays eenie meenie miney moe like a child, hoping that when the riddle stops his destination will be waiting for him at the end of his fingertip. Purely out of dumb luck, there it sits, Carmines Italian Restaurant. Randy begins to second guess himself and starts sweating suddenly. First the perspiration begins to build up on his forehead, glowing gold underneath the hot bulbs that lean over the city streets. Then it drips down Randys cheeks, leaking liquid into his neck line. As he gets into position, the puddles of sweat developing in his palms prevent him from opening the thick burnt burgundy doors that lead into the restaurant. Randy collects himself with a deep breath while wiping water away from his hands, transferring the wetness on to the dry denim that make up his pale blue jeans. Once he

Torres

enters the entry way of the busy lobby, buzzing with what seems to be a billion businessmen and a few out of place, ordinary couples, he begins to panic prematurely. Again, anxiety kicks in and takes over Randys already wet wardrobe, continuing its assault from earlier in the evening. With one more desperately deep breath Randy is back. He scans the stuffed subway like tables, readjusting his focus to see through the anorexic like aisles that make up the place, and after all the strenuous searching his date is nowhere to be found. The boringly bland beige paint plastered from wall to wall, lined with the lowly lit lamps doesnt seem to be offering any help. Randy figures she must be running late, so he takes a seat at the bar barking at the bartender for an ice cold brew. After a while, Randy finds himself glaring through the bottom of the glass where his beer once was. It must have taken him a good fifteen minutes to polish off his overpriced, pint sized beverage. Looking at his watch, the worn down leathery black band buried itself into Randys wrist, as if it were trying to hide the time from him. Finally, becoming bored with the stale peanuts on the counter and growing tired of the not so soft stool; Randy slowly slides towards the hostess and requests a table in the farthest corner of the restaurant. Once there, he orders another drink, but this time he asks for a shot of whiskey to wash away the embarrassment of being alone. When he receives his glass, the bold brown liquor brings bliss as he gulps it down. Once finished, Randy slams the glass against the mahogany table top, catching the attention of a few frowning faces that surround the table. He watches each person peeking past their plates, poking their mound of murdered meat with their filthy forks, judging him. Randy slowly stands up; his shadow stretches out beyond the bodies that occupy the dining room. He tells himself that they are no better than him, but unfortunately tonight he is the poor pathetic person who stood up and left after being stood up by a malicious mystery woman. Randy leaves a trail of awkwardness behind as he takes the walk of shame, making his elusive exit through the

Torres still not so welcoming doors that protect the place. As quickly as he enters back into the brisk cold air, Randy escapes through another door, dark brown in complexion. He reaches for the hollow handle and it feels as if he can crush it like an aluminum Coke can. Randys palms are now as dry as a desert drought, far from the nervous wreck that he once was earlier in the evening. Finding comfort in the low end subtleties that consume the new bar, he finds a sticky seat next to another sorry soul. Randy orders a tall one and reaches deep down into the damp denim, reminding him of past anxiety. He retrieves his cell phone and begins to tap tediously away, furthering frustration with every wrong button pressed. As he navigates through the

contacts in his phone, he builds the courage to call the immature childlike woman who stood him up. His thumb hovers over the neon green glow that illuminates the send button while contemplating the different directions in dialogue he might take. After a second of hesitation, he pushes it down, pressing the button so hard that for a brief moment it seems as if the plastic piece might slip away into the shadows of some imaginary sinkhole. As the phone connects all Randy can hear is a tornado of voices engulfing his surrounding, realizing now that he has entered the eye of the storm. As he scans the room he sees a woman with long black hair and for some reason the only image he can conjure up in his mind is that of a black hole, and before any confrontation even has a chance to begin, Randy already feels drained. He watches her facial expression change from unaware to alert as she picks up her phone. He recognizes this woman from somewhere, and just as fast as her dart directly hits the bulls-eye he realizes that she is the mystery women that was responsible for his heinous heartbreak. She quickly looks back and forth from her phone to the dart board, and then back to her phone. He watches her press a button on the evil little device, and on his end the ringing stops and the voicemail begins. She ignored his call, blowing him off for a second time in one night. Randy finishes his third drink and finds

Torres himself in familiar fashion, staring at the bottom of a glass. As strange as it sounds, in his drunken stupor, he always knew it was supposed to be a dinner for one.

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