The prompt this time is called 5 X 5. It’s a list exercise that asks you to create five short lists with five items on each list. The topics for each list are as follows:
- Five cities you are familiar with (they do not have to be cities you love)
- Five colors
- Five people you have loved
- Five favorite foods
- Five regrets
After you’ve generated the lists, take one from each list and generate a new list of five. Do this several times (five times would be a good number to aim for!)
- Filet Mignon
- Not marrying him
What I wrote is below.
We meet at the Monkey Bar, at a table in the back. It’s not the same Monkey Bar that he and Mom sat in on their honeymoon; it’s moved. It has a corporate owner now, and it’s trendy and loud. The bar is packed with the after-five crowd: overpaid Millennials and Generation Xers who are still dressed all in black, still trying to be relevant. The walls are a deep red; thin lights hang by long silver chords over a black bar top, and the hostess stands at the black stick of a podium with an unhappy blonde queen next to her.
“I’m here to meet Dan DeLorenzo,” I say, and he picks up a bronze, leather-bound menu and walks me back to a small, cool dining room, where the noise from the bar becomes muffled.
Pop doesn’t look up when I arrive. He’s halfway through a filet mignon and a half-bottle of Cab; the pink center of the steak is glowing under the soft light of the sconce on the red wall behind him. “You’re thirty minutes late,” he says, taking a bite, chewing slowly. He looks up at the blonde, using his fork to motion toward his wine glass, then toward me. “I’ll bring another glass right away,” he says, and disappears.
“I was pretty hungry,” Pop says, “so I ordered.”
“Okay,” I say, opening the menu. “Sorry I’m late. I decided to walk. It’s such a beautiful, warm evening.”
“Yeah, well.” He looks up; his eyes look brown in the dim light, though I know they are blue, like mine. “You could have taken a cab. I don’t have a lot of time.”
I’m thrown off by his demeanor. I’ve never known this man: he’s typical, gruff, unaffectionate. An imposter of sorts. The host returns with my wine glass. “May I have the salmon, please?” I ask. He nods, and takes my menu.
“Still polite as ever,” Pop says, giving me a half smile. “Just like your mother.” It’s a compliment, but he still sounds mad.
“You seem angry,” I say. “Are you?”
“Maybe a little bit. I don’t know.” Now this sounds familiar. The man who didn’t quite know what he was feeling.
“I mean, I haven’t heard from you in months,” I say. “Not even last night, on the Day of the Dead.” He puts down his knife and fork, pours me some wine.
“We’ve been busy,” he says.
“Really? Doing what? Answering prayers?” He laughs.
“Something like that.” It’s the first warm moment between us; there’s my Dad. A crack appears and some light shines through. “I’m disappointed, if you want to know the truth.”
“Now you sound like Mom,” I say. We both laugh.
“I mean, why didn’t you marry that nice guy? All those years he’s loved you—”
“And the other day at the gym—”
“You were there?”
“Couldn’t you see that he still felt the same way as always?”
“The guy’s got some money, Tiger. He could take good care of you.”
“He wants a mommy,” I say, taking a sip of the wine. It’s full of tannin. It will be terrible with the fish.
“You want to live alone, is that it? You don’t want to give up your independence?”
“No,” I say, “that’s not it.” I don’t have the heart to tell him I don’t want to marry someone just like him. I love the guy, but I don’t want to marry my father. It took eight years to figure that out, but I finally did. I can’t say that out loud, but he looks up, and in that moment I know that he knows. He already knows.
My fish arrives and we eat in silence.