I am at a sushi bar with my husband. We are watching the man with the black spectacles make the rolls. He lays out a rectangular piece of seaweed on a wooden board and scoops and swipes a thick line of rice in the center. Seven slices of bright pink fish dusted with black specks. He carefully forms a roll and squeezes it with a small bamboo mat.
There is a woman sitting on the other side of my husband. She is alone and orders a beautifully arranged bowl of sashimi. “I think that’s the chef’s special,” my husband whispers before popping a slice of fried sweet potato in his mouth. The woman takes a picture of her bowl. She is beautiful. Long slim fingers, perfect black eyeliner, long black hair and a blue wrap dress made of a very thin material. Excellent posture. She could be a finance director or a flight attendant. After she finishes her dinner, the sushi chef reaches over the counter and hands her a complementary panna cotta in a glass tumbler. She claps with excitement and takes a picture of it. After her dish is cleared, a waiter offers her a bowl of red bean ice cream. This woman’s beauty merits two desserts.
I say to my husband, “I guess I’m not pretty enough.” He laughs and tells me to go use the bathroom while he pays for dinner. We are in a hurry. David Byrne is performing at Bill Graham Civic Auditorium. Earlier I asked my husband if he knew that’s where I graduated high school and he reminded me I’ve told him this many times. I am becoming someone who repeats herself. I keep saying to him, “You’ll never guess who Chelsea Peretti is married to.”
I return from the bathroom and my husband is grinning. He says, “I guess you are pretty enough,” and points to a bowl in front of us. It is a dessert made up of two red glutinous balls. I hate to describe anything other than testicles as testicles but I cannot think of another comparison. Wrinkly red ping-pong balls? My husband eats one with his chopsticks and I watch his face. “It’s unusual but good,” he says, “Some sort of tomato.”
I am pretty enough for the dessert tomato.
It has been a hard few weeks. My family and I moved back to San Francisco after living in Perth for three and a half years. I can say we are adjusting and I can say it will get better, because both of those things are true. But one hour before we got to the sushi restaurant, I was in bed, crying. This is not something that is happening often, but I offer this fact to illustrate an overall state of mind. This is something only time can fix.
We meet up with friends at the concert and wait in line at the bar. I am thinking about a question my daughter asked me last night. We were both reading on the couch and sipping drinks, vodka soda for me, rooibos tea for her. Our cat jumped up and sat between us. My daughter asked me what book our cat would read, if it could read. We tossed ideas back and forth (love stories, mythology) but never settled on anything and then the timer went off because the rice was ready. All these hours later, I am still thinking about a book for my cat.
The concert is exquisite. David Byrne’s voice is like a friendly uncle’s, and his dance moves are less jerky now with age, sexier. Of course he sings Once In A Lifetime.
And you may find yourself in another part of the world. And you may ask yourself, well how did I get here?
I begin dancing in a room where, nearly thirty years ago, I graduated from high school. Have I told you that?