LEILA looks into the menu she has been given. Open, it hides her from the other diners completely. Matthew could reach his hand down the front of her dress, run his hand over her breast, caress her, and no one would be able to tell. He tries to tell himself that he’s not actually thinking of trying to fondle Leila behind her menu. I’m not thinking about that. He tells himself that he’s merely amused by the size of the menu and that the idea that it would be possible for him to caress her secretly behind it is just a form of mental note-taking, for his review. I mean, I may be thinking that it would be possible, but I’m not really thinking of doing it.
“Do you see anything you like?” he asks Leila.
“I can’t even pronounce most of these things,” she says, staying out of sight behind the menu.
“Don’t worry,” says Matthew. “The waiter probably can’t, either.” Leila laughs, and she pokes him under the table, on his leg, high up, almost at his hip. This seems remarkably intimate to him; it’s not a part of his body he would have expected her to touch.
It’s probably nothing more than the playful gesture of a kid, he tells himself. Chummy. Devoid of sexual importance.
Not necessarily. Not necessarily. I think she meant something by it.
Regardless of its intended significance, Leila’s poke has had quite an effect on him. He has begun to feel clever and charming.
“Besides,” he says, “most of these dishes are misspelled.” She giggles again. Can he do no wrong?
“They could have fooled me,” she says.
He leans conspiratorially close to her, behind the menus, standing like a stockade fence between them and the rest of the room. “They’ve fooled most of the rest of the people in here, too. Don’t worry.”
She’s about to say something, but both are suddenly aware that a waiter has slipped up on them and is replenishing their glasses.
“Uh-oh,” says Leila. “They’re on to us.” She bumps her shoulder against his. A pleasant warmth begins to spread through him, beginning at that spot on his shoulder and ending in the center of his chest.
“Here, let me — ” Reaching for her hand, he hesitates.
Oh, go ahead, Matthew, says BW. Be daring.
“ — take you by the hand,” he says, taking her hand, “and lead you through this maze of a menu.”
No laugh. That was pushing it. Relax, he tells himself. Be yourself.
He releases her hand. “The problem,” he says, “is that in Switzerland three cultures meet — four, if you count the Swiss themselves.”
Belinda would have laughed at that, he thinks, but it’s lost on Leila.
Yes, well, I think I ought to point out, says BW, that Leila’s ignorance makes her the perfect companion for the particular type of male fantasy that you find yourself living. She is young and pretty and bright, but she is ignorant. You are supposed to teach her. That is supposed to be part of the fun.
“There are the French,” he says, “the Germans, and the Italians. The Swiss have sort of taken whatever they like of those cuisines and made them their own. Americans have done the same thing, of course. Think of pizza, right?”
“Or croissants.”
“Right. The doughnut of the eighties. Anyway, some of the traditional Swiss dishes have little stars next to them. I’ll tell you what — why don’t I order for both of us? I want to get a range of stuff for the review. We can swap dishes back and forth, and if there’s anything you don’t like, just skip it. Okay?”
“Great.”
Matthew looks up, and a waiter comes scurrying over. He orders. Leila watches.
[to be continued]
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🎧 509: Leila looks . . .