The Dinner Show

"So, you are a fashion model?"

"Yes," the slim, chiseled face across from me responded.

"Do you have a preference on the kind of work you do?"

"I prefer runway to photo shoots - you are in-and-out and it's not as tiring." The Model explained.

Her mobile rang. Her sister was calling from Bogotá, and she smiled as she listened. Her boyfriend, a dark and handsome sport trainer from Bulgaria, rolled his eyes as he related the escapades of her large family to Mr November, who sat to my left.

I listened to The Bulgarian Trainer relate his story, as my eye wondered down the table at the unusual assortment of connected friends gathered to celebrate Transvaal Irish on her day of birth. Aside from those previously mentioned, dining at the table were African Author , The Palliate, The Lizard, The Bishop and The Shetlander. A diverse and traveled group, to say the least.

The Bishop was on his best behavior, considering the tardiness of the food, and lack of general attention the staff was providing at the tavern. Still, the food was good, and I relaxed into the evening, my gaze continuing on to the next room, focusing unexpectedly on another birthday party in progress.

The honoree at the head of the other table was dressed in what could only be a manufactured-hide corset, too tight for her frame, that enhanced her cleavage beyond necessity. Her hair was bleached straw, and it tossed as she gesticulated wildly with her glass of liquor. Her court, a bit mismatched in age and dress, had become louder and filled with spirit since we were seated. Mr. November followed my eyes, his ears already picking up the fury as a man appeared from the other end of the table, and gave The Corset a kiss.

Then a woman followed the man, moved him aside, and began to kiss and fondle the honoree for several minutes.

Mr November and I exchanged an entertained look and a raised eyebrow. This might be a more interesting evening than either of us had prepared for.

The other members of our party became well aware of the show next door, as the wild ride continued for several hours as we were served our courses. The Corset's voice started to carry over our conversation, profanities mixing with alternating laughter, anger and sadness. More fondling ensued, and we struggled to determine who each person had arrived with, who was going home with who, and if the older gentleman was The Corset's father ... or perhaps some strange uncle.

Then suddenly, in rekindled aggression from apparent past wrongs left simmering, The Corset ordered, in a verbose manner, that one of her guests leave the premises. When the rest of her court attempted to pacify her, she decided she would just leave herself... breaking an ancient pane of glass in the tavern door.

Our evening had come to an end it seemed, and the curtain was closed. But we waited a acceptable amount of time to allow the other party to clear the area -- just to ensure we gave their exit a wide berth to avoid any collisions.

We had come just for a dinner, but we got quite a show. The tavern owner ensured us there would be no extra charge.


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