Nick Tells Me That I SO Have A Type
Nick and I met at our favourite Italian restaurant in the city for dinner, Romanos. Nicks tells me, on the phone in the afternoon, that he can spare two hours and not a minute more, as he has a date with a married truck driver back at his place.
Nick’s on time, I’m late. You don’t think that escapes comment, something about no longer having an actual excuse to blame my tardiness on. Nick looks a million dollars, as per usual.
“Let’s order. Hetro truck drivers wait for no man.”
We both order pasta, Mama’s out in the kitchen, after all and is the reason we frequent the said establishment.
Nick tut-tutts at the suggestion of two glasses of red. “Just bring the bottle, my good man.” He hands the menus back without looking in the waiter’s direction.
“I’ll be needing a good chug of liquor to get me in the mood for Kevin.”
Nick shook his head at his own indifference and turned to the waiter. “I’m sorry...” Nick stopped and waited.
“Angelo?” The waiter offered.
Nick looked at me and winked, then looked back to Angelo. “Thank you, sooo much.”
Angelo smiled.
“Kevin?” I asked mockingly.
“I know.” Nick rolled his eyes. “Tell me about it. He just looked blank when I asked if he’d ever thought of changing it.”
“So, what’s he like this... Kevin.”
“Oh, you know, stocky, short, blue singlet a red tinge to his hair.”
“Just your type, huh?”
“My type? Which part?”
“The whole thing, haven’t you dated him five times.”
“As long as they are breathing, who gives a toss.”
Clack, sounded the wine bottle on the table. Nick cast an eye over it and said it was fine. Wine connoisseur, Oh barph, I thought.
Nick picked his glass up to me. We clinked glasses. “Salute.”
Nick took a big chug from his. “This one’s got three kids and his wife thinks he’s in Sydney.” Nick had wide eyes as he tilted his head.
“What? He’s staying the night?”
“No, he will be in Sydney, just as soon as I’ve cleaned his pipes.”
I laughed. I could see Nick out on the rig with his magic cloth.
“Married fifteen years, his wife’s lost interest, the full disaster.”
“Like ducks at a shooting gallery. Next.”
“Just how I fucken like them.”
Angelo brought my Matriciana and Nick’s gnocchi pesto. White plates. Simple. It smelt wonderful.
“I bet you are wet about him.” Nick pointed with his head as Angelo headed away.
I shrugged.
I turned my plate around, kind of a habit I have, inspecting the offerings. Stupid really.
Nick picked up his fork and for a moment used it as a talking stick. Pointing at me with the fork. “Let me just get this clear, you are telling me that I have a type?” He points at himself.
“Well, you do,” I say.
“And all you can do is shrug at the mention of Angelo?” He lays his hand out flat, upside down pointing in the direction of the kitchen.
“Huh?” Angelo is okay, he’s a bit fat and plain, is what I think. I hadn’t really noticed him, to be truthful. I mean I had. “He didn’t ring any bells for me.” Or would that be play any piano accordion?
“Seriously?” Nick’s mouth falls open.
“Seriously.”
“He is SO your type,” he says. “Latino Italian…”
“Two different nationalities…”
“Dark curly/wavy hair, green eyes, big lips, foreskin...”
“How do you know I have a foreskin preference?” My very words kind of gave it away. “Or not?”
“Oh please?” says Nick. “How long have I known you?”
“You’ve never seen any of...”
“How many times have I had to listen to you blah, blah, blah, blah?” He rolls his eyes. “Kill me now!”
"I don’t!"
"WHAT!" It was one of the rare times I've heard Nick squeal. "You sooooo do! How can you be in such denial?"
Angelo came over to see that everything was alright. Nick apologised.
"Oh come on...I might have a liking for,” I said quietly. “But you make it sound exclusive, like it excludes other types. It doesn’t have to be, it’s not a deal breaker. I could date a blond.”
"What!"
"What?"
"I count to three when you say he's cute in a bar, then I look around to see dark hair, olive skin, an uncut bulge and the smell of parmesan.”
"How do you explain Steve, then?"
"Oh Steve, who wouldn't love Steve?" Nick’s toned softened. “He’s adorable... you know that.”
"I know.” I raised my hands in the air in triumph. “I like all types of guys.”
"Chris, Carmine, Maurice, Carl." Nick raised his hands in counter triumph.
Shudder. The ex's. I didn't shudder for any bad reason, don't know why I did, really. I think it was the first time I'd ever heard all their names spoken in the one sentence together. The overload of memories rushing in at me all at once, like a tsunami in a microsecond.
Sweet Chris. Dirty Carmine. Sexy Maurice. Gorgeous Carl.
"Besides, Steve has dark hair and olive skin... too." Nick raised his hands in the air. “Turn him around and he, pretty much, looks like all the rest.
“That’s a bit of a stretch.” I had to think about that for a moment. Fun games to play with Steve, I pictured me spinning him around and around. He’d hate it. He'd give me that look at the mention of spinning games, which would roughly translate as, ah no.
“God knows you spend enough time looking at him from that angle.”
“His hair is different,” I added desperately.
"How?" Nick shot back.
"It's black like velvet, not black like a wolf."
Nick stopped, raised an eyebrow, it was his impressed look that I see occasionally. He slid his hand back across the table to his wine glass. He picked it up and drank thoughtfully. He placed his glass back down on the table. He cleared his throat. "And...Tommy."
“Tommy’s not...”
“So... not going so well?”
“It’s going fine.”
“So, that’s a not.”
“He’s the guy over the road. He’s an eighteen year old kid.”
“I thought with all this time on your hands, you’d have had them on him by now?” Nick looked at his watch. “I thought that was the reason you gave up work.”
“What?”
Nick smiled. Cheeky. It was his I-gotcha smile.
“Very funny.”
“But he’s going to be.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Who knows?”
“You’ve got his mother’s permission.” Nick’s voice was becoming shrill again. I looked over at Angelo standing by the counter, he raised an eye brow.
“I wouldn’t exactly say...”
“Fuck, I would.”
The pasta was delicious, as always. We washed it down with a second bottle of wine, although, I swear I only had a glass from each.
Nick looked at his watch. “Anyway, gotta go.” He pulled the napkin from his lap, wiped the corners of his mouth, dumped the napkin on his empty plate, pushed the plate towards the centre of the table, pushed his chair back with his legs and stood up, all in one fluid movement. “Sorry to eat and run.”
He pulled his wallet from his inside jacket pocket, took out two fifty dollar bills and dropped them on the table. “My treat.”
“What are you doing?”
“No, I won’t hear anything about it.” He scratched his forehead. “All I can think about is you waiting in line at Centrelink. It’s on me.”
“Very funny.”
He air-kissed me on both my cheeks from the other side of the table.
"Make a man of Tommy," were his last words. "How hard can it be, the boy is gagging for it. The longer this goes on... well, you are casting us all in a bad light."
"Who's light?"
"My light." He leant across the table. "Young, handsome and available, get onto it tiger."
I put my hand over my lips and blew him a kiss.
He turned back when he got to the door. "I want to hear about the moaning. I want to see the blood stained sheets."
He turned and left.
I looked over at Angelo, he was rolling his eyes.
Nick’s on time, I’m late. You don’t think that escapes comment, something about no longer having an actual excuse to blame my tardiness on. Nick looks a million dollars, as per usual.
“Let’s order. Hetro truck drivers wait for no man.”
We both order pasta, Mama’s out in the kitchen, after all and is the reason we frequent the said establishment.
Nick tut-tutts at the suggestion of two glasses of red. “Just bring the bottle, my good man.” He hands the menus back without looking in the waiter’s direction.
“I’ll be needing a good chug of liquor to get me in the mood for Kevin.”
Nick shook his head at his own indifference and turned to the waiter. “I’m sorry...” Nick stopped and waited.
“Angelo?” The waiter offered.
Nick looked at me and winked, then looked back to Angelo. “Thank you, sooo much.”
Angelo smiled.
“Kevin?” I asked mockingly.
“I know.” Nick rolled his eyes. “Tell me about it. He just looked blank when I asked if he’d ever thought of changing it.”
“So, what’s he like this... Kevin.”
“Oh, you know, stocky, short, blue singlet a red tinge to his hair.”
“Just your type, huh?”
“My type? Which part?”
“The whole thing, haven’t you dated him five times.”
“As long as they are breathing, who gives a toss.”
Clack, sounded the wine bottle on the table. Nick cast an eye over it and said it was fine. Wine connoisseur, Oh barph, I thought.
Nick picked his glass up to me. We clinked glasses. “Salute.”
Nick took a big chug from his. “This one’s got three kids and his wife thinks he’s in Sydney.” Nick had wide eyes as he tilted his head.
“What? He’s staying the night?”
“No, he will be in Sydney, just as soon as I’ve cleaned his pipes.”
I laughed. I could see Nick out on the rig with his magic cloth.
“Married fifteen years, his wife’s lost interest, the full disaster.”
“Like ducks at a shooting gallery. Next.”
“Just how I fucken like them.”
Angelo brought my Matriciana and Nick’s gnocchi pesto. White plates. Simple. It smelt wonderful.
“I bet you are wet about him.” Nick pointed with his head as Angelo headed away.
I shrugged.
I turned my plate around, kind of a habit I have, inspecting the offerings. Stupid really.
Nick picked up his fork and for a moment used it as a talking stick. Pointing at me with the fork. “Let me just get this clear, you are telling me that I have a type?” He points at himself.
“Well, you do,” I say.
“And all you can do is shrug at the mention of Angelo?” He lays his hand out flat, upside down pointing in the direction of the kitchen.
“Huh?” Angelo is okay, he’s a bit fat and plain, is what I think. I hadn’t really noticed him, to be truthful. I mean I had. “He didn’t ring any bells for me.” Or would that be play any piano accordion?
“Seriously?” Nick’s mouth falls open.
“Seriously.”
“He is SO your type,” he says. “Latino Italian…”
“Two different nationalities…”
“Dark curly/wavy hair, green eyes, big lips, foreskin...”
“How do you know I have a foreskin preference?” My very words kind of gave it away. “Or not?”
“Oh please?” says Nick. “How long have I known you?”
“You’ve never seen any of...”
“How many times have I had to listen to you blah, blah, blah, blah?” He rolls his eyes. “Kill me now!”
"I don’t!"
"WHAT!" It was one of the rare times I've heard Nick squeal. "You sooooo do! How can you be in such denial?"
Angelo came over to see that everything was alright. Nick apologised.
"Oh come on...I might have a liking for,” I said quietly. “But you make it sound exclusive, like it excludes other types. It doesn’t have to be, it’s not a deal breaker. I could date a blond.”
"What!"
"What?"
"I count to three when you say he's cute in a bar, then I look around to see dark hair, olive skin, an uncut bulge and the smell of parmesan.”
"How do you explain Steve, then?"
"Oh Steve, who wouldn't love Steve?" Nick’s toned softened. “He’s adorable... you know that.”
"I know.” I raised my hands in the air in triumph. “I like all types of guys.”
"Chris, Carmine, Maurice, Carl." Nick raised his hands in counter triumph.
Shudder. The ex's. I didn't shudder for any bad reason, don't know why I did, really. I think it was the first time I'd ever heard all their names spoken in the one sentence together. The overload of memories rushing in at me all at once, like a tsunami in a microsecond.
Sweet Chris. Dirty Carmine. Sexy Maurice. Gorgeous Carl.
"Besides, Steve has dark hair and olive skin... too." Nick raised his hands in the air. “Turn him around and he, pretty much, looks like all the rest.
“That’s a bit of a stretch.” I had to think about that for a moment. Fun games to play with Steve, I pictured me spinning him around and around. He’d hate it. He'd give me that look at the mention of spinning games, which would roughly translate as, ah no.
“God knows you spend enough time looking at him from that angle.”
“His hair is different,” I added desperately.
"How?" Nick shot back.
"It's black like velvet, not black like a wolf."
Nick stopped, raised an eyebrow, it was his impressed look that I see occasionally. He slid his hand back across the table to his wine glass. He picked it up and drank thoughtfully. He placed his glass back down on the table. He cleared his throat. "And...Tommy."
“Tommy’s not...”
“So... not going so well?”
“It’s going fine.”
“So, that’s a not.”
“He’s the guy over the road. He’s an eighteen year old kid.”
“I thought with all this time on your hands, you’d have had them on him by now?” Nick looked at his watch. “I thought that was the reason you gave up work.”
“What?”
Nick smiled. Cheeky. It was his I-gotcha smile.
“Very funny.”
“But he’s going to be.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Who knows?”
“You’ve got his mother’s permission.” Nick’s voice was becoming shrill again. I looked over at Angelo standing by the counter, he raised an eye brow.
“I wouldn’t exactly say...”
“Fuck, I would.”
The pasta was delicious, as always. We washed it down with a second bottle of wine, although, I swear I only had a glass from each.
Nick looked at his watch. “Anyway, gotta go.” He pulled the napkin from his lap, wiped the corners of his mouth, dumped the napkin on his empty plate, pushed the plate towards the centre of the table, pushed his chair back with his legs and stood up, all in one fluid movement. “Sorry to eat and run.”
He pulled his wallet from his inside jacket pocket, took out two fifty dollar bills and dropped them on the table. “My treat.”
“What are you doing?”
“No, I won’t hear anything about it.” He scratched his forehead. “All I can think about is you waiting in line at Centrelink. It’s on me.”
“Very funny.”
He air-kissed me on both my cheeks from the other side of the table.
"Make a man of Tommy," were his last words. "How hard can it be, the boy is gagging for it. The longer this goes on... well, you are casting us all in a bad light."
"Who's light?"
"My light." He leant across the table. "Young, handsome and available, get onto it tiger."
I put my hand over my lips and blew him a kiss.
He turned back when he got to the door. "I want to hear about the moaning. I want to see the blood stained sheets."
He turned and left.
I looked over at Angelo, he was rolling his eyes.
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