Dining in the Dark

I miss writing. 

I write emails, proposals, terms and conditions everyday on the job but... I miss writing. 

So here goes nothing.

Valentine's (belated) dinner was a themed restaurant that the whole city was raving about -- Dining in the Dark. Literally. I couldn't see my fingers, I couldn't see my food, I couldn't see him. 

The optic nerve is overridden - your other senses take over. Every sound, every movement, every taste, every breath is an adventure!

The books say that your body automatically heightens up the sensitivity of your remaining senses should any one of the five fail to function. This could be an adventure for the blessed; this could be an empathetic experience for the blessed.

I pride myself for being able to adjust to a new environment quite quickly. One of the very few useful life lessons that Ogilvy & Mather taught me: survive, or at least try to survive. My hands explored the table as if it were my lover's body.

Lacquered smooth. 

Cold, except for the places where my hands once were. 

Rock solid. 

"On your right are your cutlery. In front of them is your coaster, your white wine will be served shortly. Now, on your twelve o'clock are your dessert fork and spoon, can you find them?"

Metal cold. Four sharp points joined on a long thin metal was my fork. The familiar curve of metal was my spoon. 

But where's the knife?

"Have you found your dessert cutlery... ah good." A hint of a smile. "Can you find each other?"

This must be how being in outer space feels like. Cold, stagnant air on my fingers. This must be how hell feels like. 

Coarse, warm and thick fingers touched mine and instantly grabbed my full hand. I recognise the grip, I know that temperature so well. I found him. 

I wouldn't call it darkness; just the absence of light. The absence of light is fiercely piercing and bright. So bright I felt my eyes tearing and I had to close them for a while. The absence of light is disconcerting. I was in limbo and felt that I could easily stop believing in existence if it weren't for the synthetic woolen cushion I was sitting on, the carpeted solid floor, the lacquered table top and the dull red lights of the CCTV. So dull that after a while, you don't notice them anymore. 

This must be how hell feels like. Am I ready for this? Is life the light and death the absence of it? 

"Baby."

His voice is the crisp of dried, brown leaves as they fall on the pavements. Silky like the first drop of milk, gurgling as it's being poured into hot tea in the coffee shop. I will always remember how I turned my head in the direction of this baritone in my Public Relations lecture. How I fell, oh how I fell in love. 

Appetisers were served: four cold dishes of which three were salads. Two hot soups quickly followed. It perplexes me constantly how chefs and waiters in classy restaurants manage to get the temperature of hot food just right. It was searing but not hot enough to burn the tongue. Like holding hands, the sincere kind, the kind that you know your feelings are reciprocated. He was in a black shirt and stonewashed blue jeans and when he held my hand for the first time it was almost burning. It left a mark. I can still see it today.

I know my meat well. Very well, in fact. Then again, how could you not know chicken when you eat it? How could you not know mutton with the first bite? I've always hated mutton. The smell drives me to the point of revulsion not just gastronomically but emotionally too. He smells of mutton sometimes. It infuriates me. I skipped the mutton and was pleased to find farfelle in a tomato-based pasta sauce, familiar and welcoming. With a swig of red wine, the pasta helped clear the nauseating mutton after taste.

Yet I stabbed my fork on the mutton again. I guess I'm truly a glutton for punishment. His mother once said that I'm actually fine with mutton, since there were a few times I've unknowingly eaten her mutton dishes. That it's maybe me consciously telling myself that I dislike it, I abhor it, but I am actually fine with it. Because I always come back to it. 

And I've never really vomited after eating mutton, anyway.

Desserts are meant to be cold and refreshing, I believe. There should be ice, there should be citrus, at least a tinge of it. Why do they call it passion fruit? Did the ancients intend for the fruit to be a metaphor? Is passion like citrus? I fancy passion to be chocolate, because it can be cloying. Mayhaps this is how true passion should be like, refreshing and heart-wrenching. This is how we are.

It hardly hurt, when we were out of the dark room and met with light again.

"I miss you, baby. Thank you for the dinner, I really love it."

I wish I never need to dine in the dark with him again. I'll miss him too much.