We met in the coffee shop and exchanged only a few words. Neither of us took cream and sugar. There seemed to be a connection. So when Martin invited me over for dinner I agreed. To be honest, he was man of steel handsome and I was getting lonely ever since my one male friend relocated half way around the world, somewhere in Thailand.
Dinner was nice. He served a little salad with beets, biscuits with butter, and tofu steak with mushrooms. I excused myself to go to the washroom after the meal. Next to the toilet was a small table with a box of Kleenex, some lotion, and on the wall directly across a framed picture of Kim Jong-un.
When I came back the dishes were already cleared away and what appeared to be a freshly printed copy of the Communist Manifesto was placed where my plate had been. And on his side of the table was a worn out copy stuffed with bookmarks and colored tabs.
“So Susan, what do you think of my cooking?” Martin called from the living room as he motioned for me to join him, away from the kitchen and the manifestos.
With my mind still in the bathroom I responded without thinking. “Nice, nice, and those beets were so red.”
“Thanks. I belong to a collective rooftop farm right here in Soho,” he responded proudly. He does have Lenin’s eyes I thought.
The TV was on CNN with some story about tense relations between the Koreas. I’m a bit of a rabble rouser so I thought I’d see where this little train ride of a date would take me.
“You know Martin, I read somewhere North Korea officially denounced Communism back in 2009. Maybe they’re planning on turning over a new leaf?” He didn’t bat an eyelash.
“I hadn’t read that Susan. Please send me a link won’t you?” he deadpanned.
The train eventually got back on its rails and we had a nice evening, sans pamphlets, enough to make up for the lotion and the picture. Quirky isn’t illegal. As I was leaving he gave me a polite peck on the cheek and asked if I’d like to come back another time. “Certainly Martin. And I’ll bring apple pie.”
A week later I was back with my dessert. He was the picture of charm and accompanied me into the kitchen to put my pie in the refrigerator.
“So what are we having tonight?” I asked, scanning for new literature.
“Buona gnocchi Susan, buona gnocchi,” Martin replied in perfect fake Italian. “It’s no done yet. Let’sa seet in the other rooma. Let’sa talk.”
As we moved to the living room I thought, Italy and North Korea don’t exactly mix. Am I in for another ride?
“That’s pretty good fake Italian Martin. Where did you learn to speak it so well?” I rabbled.
He laughed out loud. “Aw I’m just joking around. But seriously, have you seen any good movies lately?”
“As a matter of fact I have. Legally Blond one and two.”
“No, no, I mean real movies, Fellini, Bertolucci…” he trailed off.
I could hear a distant whistle in my head. Was the train veering off the tracks again? Or were the tracks just a bit highbrow and nothing more? On a hunch I excused myself and headed for the washroom. No sooner did I walk in than I turned around, rushed out to the living room to grab my coat, and left without saying goodbye.
* * *
When I got home I plopped on the couch and called my sister.
“You’re home early? I thought you had a date with that Martin?”
“I did.”
“Well then, what happened?”
“Mussolini.”
Ken Schweda used to be a jazz musician, has a degree in Philosophy, drove trams at an amusement park, programs computers, and writes fiction and poetry. His work has appeared in theNewerYork, SPANK the CARP, and will appear in an upcoming issue of The Bookends Review. Read more at kenjeavus.com.
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