No Less Than Three Drinks
He is both pineapple and James Bond character when I try to picture him, his three-piece suits a standard attire; black, red, and purple. When he texts to invite me to dinner or drinks or brunch with Soderbergh, I do whatever I can to make it happen.
He walks with purpose as he’s navigating through the streets to the next restaurant or bar, a determination and leadership that I have sought in others at one time or another. When he enters the room, he is recognizable to most of the staff, and greetings ring out against the walls. The bar is open and awaiting him, and he pauses to pull out my chair before saddling up himself.
I’ll start with the left side of the menu, he explains to the bartender. How does that sound, he asks me.
I’m in, I say.
Once the first round of plates are clean, he starts to finger the menu again, perusing the secondary course, requesting the list of desserts. Another round of drinks arrives before us, special pours, the bottles stored on the top shelf for special guests. More plates are dropped before us in succession, gifts from the kitchen.
You’re such a king, I always joke with him.
You could be my queen, he always responds.
The check arrives hours later, once we’re ready to depart, and I reach for my purse reactively even though I know he’ll wave me off.
Love you, I impart as we hug outside the restaurant.
Love you too, he answers, leaving a kiss on my cheek.
The sky has fallen dark, and we both have other places to be.
In memory of Rocky Yeh 1977–2019
