Comfort Zones

So I just wanted to create a page where I can post things that I write. Some of it is true. Some of it is pure insane drivel coming from a very sane looking woman. I'm pretty plain. I wear glasses. My hair is in a ponytail. I have a nice rack. It all evens out somehow.  Here's a piece I wrote for my first creative writing class on January 18, 2014: (In all fairness to the man in this story, he is actually really nice, but I think he would agree this kind of illustrates why we wouldn't make it as a couple.)

Comfort Zones

“So, explain to me what a fajita is.”

Jennifer looked incredulously at Ilan and wasn’t sure if he was testing her descriptive skills or playing a joke on her.  Surely, a man who grew up in New York had come across a Mexican restaurant or two in his 36 years of life. Jennifer’s parents were from Hong Kong and Taipei and even they had eaten their share of fajitas.

Because of his real or perceived “food sensory issues,” Ilan had made it clear he was coming to The Coyote Grill as a courtesy to Jennifer. He was happiest when eating white rice with plain grilled chicken and drank only milk, juice and water. On a few occasions, he would eat 3 slices of plain cheese pizza at Merone's. Eating at unfamiliar restaurants was out of his comfort zone and this particular outing took Herculean effort.

Jennifer took a deep breath, smiled like a stewardess from the 1960’s and began, “Well, it’s like a thin, soft, flour pancake that you can fill with anything you want. Steak, chicken, or shrimp, and vegetables like onions and peppers and- ”

“Yeah. No, I don’t eat vegetables. Go on.”  He leaned back in his seat and looked at Jennifer with a benign "just pretend I'm not being difficult" look.

“Well, you have the meat and the tortilla, right? And then you can also add cheese, sour cream and salsa, which you probably won’t want, and guacamole. Ah- nevermind. You wouldn’t want that either because of your food issues. ” She exhaled, relieved that she was able to explain a fajita to his satisfaction. Yet, she couldn’t help thinking, For God’s sake, I’ve tasted kidneys on toast and kangaroo and I’m dating a guy who just asked me to explain what a fajita is.

Ilan straightened up in his chair and then dropped his palms down on the menu and furrowed his brow.

“Hmm. OK, I just want meat, cheese, sour cream. What is the side dish? Beans and rice? I don’t eat beans. I just want rice.” His eyes darted up and down the menu, as if that would prevent a legume from ambushing his pristine order of rice.

Jennifer hated being perceived as a picky eater and here she was, in the company of Ilan, a champion chooser. She recalled him saying last week, “Tasting something bad can ruin my entire day.”

Just then, the waitress came by to take their order. Oh God, here we go, Jennifer sighed.

Ilan’s voice was firm, but even: “ I would like the steak fajitas. But make sure there are NO VEGETABLES. I don’t want to see anything green on my plate. Just the steak. And I want the sour cream and cheese on the side. Just plain cheddar cheese. And I don’t want the beans.  I just want extra rice, but nothin’ on it. No beans. No vegetables.”

Jennifer smiled nervously at the waitress as if she were trying to apologize for how picky her boyfriend was. The couple was an intriguing combination. Jennifer was the youngest daughter in a Chinese family and was raised not to cause a fuss, while Ilan was a first-born son in a Jewish family where he was bred to be the chief fuss-maker. This restaurant experience was also out of Jennifer’s comfort zone, but not because of the food.

“Do you want the guacamole and pico de gallo? It comes with the fajita,” the waitress asked.

“No, I don’t want anything else. Just the meat. Tortilla. Sour cream. Cheddar cheese. And plain rice. That’s it.” As he enunciated every element of his meal, he made hand motions gently onto the table as if to partition his food.

Ilan smiled at the waitress. Fortunately, he possessed enough charm to ensure that the wait staff didn’t spit into his food.

Then it was Jennifer’s turn to order. She came to the realization that she had put on too much makeup and the mascara was making her lashes stick together. It felt unnatural to be wearing makeup and a tight dress to a casual restaurant just to please Ilan and now it was uncomfortable to watch him order a fucking fajita.

“Oh, I’ll just have the vegetarian quesadilla. Thank you.”

The waitress quickly absconded with their order. Ilan turned to Jennifer and smiled with the ease of a man who got what he wanted. Jennifer felt her lips stick to her teeth as she smiled in return.