It’s a Spring Sunday. April, perhaps. Mild enough for White people to wear sandals and yacht shorts and chilly enough to Black people for Black people to talk about White people for wearing sandals and yacht shorts.
It’s 71 degrees.
I’m at Sequoia in D.C.. Brunching by myself. Because I’m trying a new “brunch by yourself” diet that aims to limit how much you eat at brunch.
I’m on my fourth plate. The diet doesn’t work.
I’m standing at the omelet station, eyeing the bacon tray 20 feet away. Wanting to grab some bacon from the bacon tray. But not wanting to lose my place in the omelet line.
I turn to the woman behind me. She’s wearing skinny jeans and a vintage baby tee. Her hair is perfect; she smells like cocoa butter and freedom. And good credit. Her skin shines and sparkles and glistens, like a Snickers bar covered in shea butter covered in baby oil covered in chocolate covered in diamonds covered in glitter. She reminds me of my jeep. I say “Hey, do you mind watching my place in line? I want to grab some bacon. Do you want some bacon? I can bring back two plates of bacon.”
She smiles. Says “Sure.”
I say “Sure you’ll keep my place in line, or sure you want some bacon too?”
She laughs. Says “You can bring back all the bacon. And you’ll still have your place in line.”
I saunter to the bacon tray, wondering how I’m going to bring all this bacon back in line. And if this mysterious, Snickerglitter-skinned woman is just teasing me. Because she doesn’t look like the type to want an entire plate of bacon. A plate of bacon-flavored kale chips perhaps. But not actual swine. And if she’s just teasing, will I play it off and say “I know” and pretend I got two plates of bacon for myself?
I walk back to the omelet line, armed with two porcelain plates and 21 slices of bacon. The line has moved. She’s one person away from the front, and there’s no one behind her. So, instead of inching my way in front of her, I go to stand behind her. She faces me. We make eye contact. She eyes my plate of bacon. Smirks. Grabs two slices. Bites them. Her teeth are blinding. Illuminating. I wonder if she flosses.
She closes her eyes. Says “So good. That was soooo good.” I wonder if this is her first time having bacon. So I ask “Is this your first time having bacon?” She says “No. I’ve had bacon before. Many times, actually.”
It’s her turn in line. The omelet station man asks if she’s ready to order. She’s pensive. Cutely pensive. It is sickening how cute she is while pensive. Which reinforces my theory that everything a cute woman does — stretch, be pensive, serve as assistant district attorney, shoplift yoga pants, etc — is cute by extension of her cuteness. I have problematic theories.
I make a suggestion. “Try crab meat, feta, and peppers. Red and green. And some black pepper. You will not be disappointed.”
She smiles again. With teeth so bright my eyelids twitch. “What a lovely combination, bacon man.”
I smile. Not because it was particularly funny — it wasn’t — but because smiling when someone attempts to make a polite joke is the polite thing to do. And then I say “I know, Lupita. I know.”
“How did you know my name?” she smirks, cutely. “Are you some type of genius or something, bacon man?”
I wake up.
