"Pig & Khao has so many 3-4 star reviews that read, "the food is SO great, BUT..." and tonight I understood why. The food is a 5, but the dine-in experience is a solid 3. In typical LES fashion, the vibe here is underground hipster, but for no reason at all. They blast the music so that you're basically screaming to be heard by your party, who is seated less than a foot away. You're also elbow distance to the tables next to you so you feel like you're all having dinner together. It was a little awkward. On top of all that, the service was dismissive and a little pushy. All that aside, the food is seriously 5-star amazing. We ordered all the popular items: the sisig, pork adobo, cripsy pata, khao soi.
I think next time, I'll order delivery for optimal enjoyment.
- Tracey, Williamsburg
“Here’s your Sisig,” a tall food runner mumbles, introducing a sizzling, cast iron tray to place between Tracey and Kevin. The intoxicating smells and theatrics of oil pinging on the plate immediately spark envy from nearby diners like a fabulous fajita entrance at a Mexican restaurant. The food runner is wearing an oversized, blue and yellow tie-dyed Spongebob Squarepants throwback tee that’s slightly torn at the neckline as well as the armpit. Tracey watches him as the potentially sweat stained shirt dangles off his tilting torso, her appetizer an innocent bystander floating just below, inches from the table. She nearly squeals when the hem appears to have broken the wobbling egg yolk at the peak of the meat-laden dish (That’s her yolk to break!), but the plate lands unscathed, and the dirty blue fabric lifts back up in tandem with the runner’s chest. Oblivious to the near, yolk-murdering incident he shuffles back towards the kitchen.
“You think he paid $100 for that shirt at Urban Outfitters, with or without the tears included?” Tracey says giggling a little at her own cleverness, hoping to ignite the same from Kevin who typically appreciates her sarcasm. Kevin shrugs her quip off with a scoff and picks up his chopsticks taking quick aim at the Sisig’s decadent garnish. “Wait!” Tracey grumbles, her hand up like an overzealous crossing guard.
Kevin obediently surrenders his chopsticks to the table and lets out a sigh, extending his gaze to the ceiling. “Do you really need to do it every time?”
“I know, I’m like a kid pressing all the buttons in the elevator. I just have to do it.” It was an oddly satisfying act she discovered at a gourmet pizza restaurant, and since then nominated herself to be the sole yolk breaker in this duo. Proprietary control was one of a few unsavory quirks Tracey came with, made worse by her own ignorance of its existence.
Tracey triumphantly arms her chopsticks and spears them right into the heart of the bright yellow yolk, piercing the thin shield holding it together. The golden, luscious fat spills onto the roughly chopped pork head cubes and expels more steam from the cast iron tray. She mixes the velvety river throughout the meat valley to ensure maximum coverage.
She looks up as Kevin’s chopsticks collect a heaping bite: "I think we’re good babe.” Tracey bobs her head in annoyed submission and scoops up a bite of her own, excited to taste the fruits of her mixing labors. "Wow," Tracey sighs out in hog ecstasy. Kevin sends a lazy grin to his girlfriend and mindlessly shoves one bite in after another, one eye on his phone, exhibiting no signs of the same sensory euphoria.
Kevin and Tracey had recently slumped into a two-year lull. Their daily routine, once a steamy synchronized dance, could now easily be performed solo, and their dwindling date nights presently showed as much variety as their activity between the sheets. Tonight’s outing is a first in a long culinary dry spell, planned by Tracey, and meant to reinforce the connective value of sharing a meal with your significant other.
Tracey felt somewhat responsible for the sudden slump having been recently promoted to manage an overwhelming project at work, causing her to push Kevin, and support of his burgeoning career, lower and lower on the priority list. She always prided herself on her ability to compartmentalize her life into neat little sections, careful not to cause any disruptive overflows, but between new stresses, and managing Kevin’s strange endeavors, she’d gotten sloppy and the guilt was heavy.
“How is your latest tutorial going?” Tracey nudges.
Kevin is moderately known in the oversaturated world of Instagram influencing as a trainer; an uncharacteristic career swap for a former financial analyst considering the financial uncertainty.
Kevin’s whole body perks at the mention. “It’s looking fierce. I’m psyched to be incorporating some out of the box weight ideas like barstools and bowling balls.”
Tracey responds with a cartoon smile, which feels (and looks) like overkill for the subject matter, but she wants to be clear in her supportive intentions even if deep down she found it exhausting. Seeing him now, his broad, detailed shoulders tucked into an powder blue sweater, the color popping even more against his freshly cut jet black hair, it was strange to look at this Kevin, having fallen in love with the before to this brawny after picture.
Tracey’s hand reaches out across the table and grabs Kevin’s softly. "Hey I wanted to say I’m sorry. I’ve been too focused on work lately, when I should have been more attentive to you and your new career.”
Tracey picks up her cocktail glass and raises it to Kevin: “Let’s cheers to tonight. A fresh start to get back to us.”
Kevin doesn't lift his glass. Instead he presses his hand tenderly into Tracey’s as he says, “I think I want to break up.”
The story of how they met is vague in detail, neither could place who spoke to whom first, but they were thankful they both showed up to that Oscars viewing party. Kevin’s Oscar bingo card won him a small jackpot and he treated Tracey to an after party ice cream where they realized they might be the only two people left who had never seen “Friends.” Tracey had doubts about moving in so quickly, but when Kevin lost his job 6 months in, she couldn’t resist saving Kevin from the self-esteem destruction being financially challenged can cause. She had a knack for finding (and attaching to) men who really needed her. Thankfully the thrill of a new home without roommates, made those first few weeks, while very exploratory, exhilarating rather than suffocating.
They discovered a shared obsession with home organization, an inherent need to fall asleep with the TV on, and a mutual understanding that neither one of them should be trusted to cook. Turns out they knew as much about a kitchen as Ross did about “The Break” debacle. But when they were confronted with Grubhub’s brutal assault on their credit card statements they had no choice but to surrender to the necessary evil of cooking at home.
Figuring out what to make for dinner each night through endless DM’ing of Buzzfeed Tasty videos, bonded them in ways they didn’t expect. Together they ruined plenty of grilled cheeses, Bolognese sauces, and roasted vegetables, but laughing over screaming smoke alarms and chewing through charred pieces of grit made the challenging process tolerable. The first time Kevin said, well yelled, I Love You, Tracey was wildly whisking a broken cheese sauce while tending to an over-boiling pasta pot, about to launch its lid. The mac and cheese came out soupy and a little grainy, but it was their first dinner in requited bliss. Comfortable domesticity followed suit, as they settled into leisure weekend mornings shopping at the McCarren farmers market with coffees in hand and lazy afternoons binging “Friends.” At least once a week, they had a mandated date night at a new location to keep the creature comforts of being homebodies at bay.
That was Kevin and Tracey, before Kevin’s bizarre metamorphosis. To Tracey, he was one of those skinny-fat people who had never exercised outside of middle school PE. His mother was extremely neurotic and very concussion conscious, which ruled out football and any other contact sport that would have given him the kind of confidence athleticism often inspires. When Kevin was battling those long four months of unemployment, desperate for a sense of worth and socialization outside of Tracey, he found himself on Meetup.com and joined the first movement motivated group that wouldn’t antagonize his fragile physical ego, or require a membership fee. The Brooklyn running community welcomed the beginner with open arms and a regimented training calendar.
It was easy for Tracey to be supportive in the beginning. She herself was a gymnast in high school, so she empathized with what Kevin craved. It was also important to her that they each maintained independent hobbies, so if he had asked her to join, she would have heartily declined. Schlepping back and forth between the City and Brooklyn demanded a heavy foot load and their L was at least a mile each way; more than enough activity for her, again, if Kevin had asked.
At his first 10k, she stood in the rain waving a “You Got This Kev!” sign, and snapped the perfect photo of Kevin’s radiating, sweaty glow as he powerfully burst through the finish line. She had never seen him so triumphant, and she realized how depressed Kevin had actually been. From then on, his newfound confidence began to positively affect every aspect of his life, including a significant uptick in his sex drive, which Tracey had no problem encouraging.
The concern bubbled when Kevin’s fitness routine progressed to an all-consuming mindset, which Tracey could have interceded if she hadn’t been so fixated on playing the role of cheerleader. His mile cronies were doing an expert job of shepherding Kevin to fitter pastures. They all had chiseled physiques and structured diets and once a week there was always coffee after “the long run” where they preached about maintaining a healthy lifestyle, which for Kevin required an invasive lifestyle renovation. Kevin listened. His workouts jumped to two-a-days, mixing strength training with 10 mile “recovery” runs, which all needed to be supplemented by bland, lean proteins and chalky water shakes taken on the go. Then the experiment with shirtless selfies started. Tracey caught him in the act one morning by the window with the good light and felt flush with embarrassment: "How long has he been doing this?” By the time Kevin joined a fellow runner in his IG Live workout, it was too late to sound the alarm. He came home inspired to cultivate a new social media persona as a training coach and a few dozen amateur workout videos later, he was celebrating 25k followers and fostering a career as The Calf Guy.
While Kevin’s ego was inflating with every new follow, the novelty of dating a guy known for having sculpted calves was rapidly deflating on Tracey’s end. She was starting to look at his profile with hovering hands and one eye closed, the same way she watched painfully awkward movie scenes. Humble #TransformationTuesday photos were replaced by cheap posts, mid one-armed push up, skin deliberately shiny, complimented by a gag worthy motivational quote. Every image of Kevin’s rippling pectorals reminded Tracey of the layer of happy fat comfortably settled in her midsection. Layers happily made with her lover before he looked at melted cheese like some kind of disease: "Could he BE more annoying?” She wouldn’t dare criticize him to his face, it went against her girlfriend credo, but she was determined to get her date nights back to their regularly scheduled programming.
She had heard about Pig & Khao from a co-worker who never shared her weekend activities, except this one particular Monday morning in her department’s weekly check in meeting. “Have any of you been down to the Lower East Side recently?” Annie said, thrilled to finally have the room’s full attention. “Well my daughter was in town and she took us to a hipster place called Cow’s Pig. It was one of those places where everyone looks like a model, but the food wasn’t like anything I’d ever tasted!” Even though she hated how loud the space was, Annie continued to blabber on about the inventive dishes and even delicately admitted she got a little drunk. Tracey didn’t like the vibe of the Lower East Side, she found it over populated by youth obsessed with nostalgia they never actually experienced, which made her feel old and grumpy. On the other hand, one dining experience essentially liberated Annie from her own rigid coils, and made her seem, dare Tracey think…fun? This was the kind of palate spicing sorcery Kevin needed.
Upon uncovering the restaurant’s actual name, Tracey looked up Pig & Khao on her favorite restaurant review site, where she had published several of her own unsolicited dining opinions. She was thrilled to find hundreds of satisfied customers blown away by the exciting array of dishes, many of which were laden with decadent cuts of pork. Unfortunately, the menu appeared to have Filipino cuisine at the heart of the Thai fusion selections and Kevin was that kind of Filipino who dismissed eating at any restaurant claiming to serve Filipino cuisine, unless it was vetted and approved by other Filipinos. It was a risky suggestion, but as it was, any restaurant outside of Kevin’s meal dictatorship was a risky suggestion. Tracey headed home that night with a fervent purpose and after he filmed yet another, meal prep cooking video, she propositioned Kevin.
“Can we please do date night this week and go to this place? It’s supposedly Filipino-Thai fusion and everyone says it’s supposed to be amazing. Look, this is their Crispy Pata and they even have that Halo Halo thing you like.” Tracey pushed her phone up to Kevin’s face to show the corresponding photos. He was fully engrossed in his own content, re-watching his shoddy gimbal work. Kevin’s eyes migrated to Tracey’s phone and barely lingered: ”Yea whatever. That’s fine.” He pressed rewind to hear what he had missed, and laughed at his own dad joke about broccoli.
Tracey was blindsided by how fast Kevin agreed to an unfamiliar destination. She expected at least some pushback, but her suspicion was marred by hope because Kevin probably noticed their rut too and was willing to make some dietary sacrifices in the name of love. Tracey planted a Thank You kiss on his forehead and made a reservation for Friday.
When they arrived on the Lower East Side, they found their destination nestled discreetly next to a bodega, the exterior a mass of windows blasting a spotlight onto the seductively dark street. Tracey pulled out her phone for a quick couple selfie, making sure to get the exposed bar in the background. She opted to wear her Oh, Damn dress (named by her last boyfriend), which felt like it was custom made to caress her body, accentuating only her must-see goodies, and tactfully hiding the rest. The black number showed just enough cleavage to be seductive, but not obscene, and short enough without requiring the constant pull-down maneuver. Every time she broke it out of her closet, it would ignite an alter ego type confidence: “Just call me T for Tasty.” She posted the appropriately filtered proof of their happiness, captioning: "Date Night with my Baby!"
As soon as they entered they were met with a cacophony of Biggie, a heavy hum of ongoing conversations and pans clattering at the open kitchen. The stove’s flames sent bursts of smoke into the dining room, like a heavy blunt hit exhaling a second hand, food-high fog. A sweet pink haired hostess in metallic Doc Martins, who gave a telling preview of the rest of the staff, seated them opposite from the kitchen at a table wedged between two other two-tops, posing a minor threat to the Oh, Damn dress. Tracey faced the table occupied by what looked like another date night couple, and standing up on her toes, squeezed through the narrow aisle, grazing her ass on the light oak before plopping down on the bench. She lent a faint apology smile to the lithe female wearing a precious, oversized headband, her date a Midtown-Uniform whose eyes matched his navy Patagonia vest. “So what are we eating?” Kevin asked, already looking at the menu. “Everything,” Tracey cooed.
The Sisig was the first to arrive, but the exquisite taste sensations were dulled by the booming silence between them caused by the aptly stated "I think I want to break up."
It was shockingly easy for Tracey to notice even with the blaring music and the titillating conversations from adjacent tables drowning them with sound. The couple to their right, in a trance of heated eye contact. Even in between bites of succulent pieces of glazed ribs - a dish categorically considered unsexy - it was abundantly clear they were eye fucking the shit out of each other, imagining obscenities with each lick of a finger, sopping up sticky sauce. Meanwhile, Tracey was in hell.
Kevin slid another bite of sisig into his mouth, like a palette cleanser. The dining clatter that was consuming Tracey's eardrums, seemed to mute instantaneously, singling out the grotesque sounds of the masticated remnants still rolling around in Kevin’s mouth. He took a moment, not to let the smoke clear from the shotgun blast to Tracey’s stomach, but to swallow.
Wounded, with no help on the way, Tracey thought she might die here. She wondered how quickly the rigor mortis would take to set in, locking her hand permanently around Kevin’s so he’d be forced to live with her dangling at his wrist, like some scarlet letter skin tag. “Reel it back Tracey.”
Her other hand is still floating above the table in full Cheers! formation, cradling her spicy watermelon margarita, the cup dripping condensation all over her palm, letting little droplets drizzle onto the table. It feels like a lifetime in limbo before her body heeds the call to action, and successfully amputating her one hand from Kevin’s, she puts the drink up to her lips and inhales the liquor hoping to find a response at the bottom of the glass. The overwhelming amount of muddled jalapeño strangles her throat, shocking her vocal cords into a dry heave. She speaks anyway.
“Is this because of the yolk thing? I know I’m a little controlling sometimes but –“ She gasps for more air to continue her irrational thought, but Spongebob is back again, this time for retrieval: “Are you all done with this?”
Unable to compute Spongebob’s question, Tracey looks to her left for help and meets four eyes belonging to two men, probably on some sort of bro date while their girlfriends are out of town. Both obnoxiously good looking, and one, a smoldering blonde, looks curiously familiar. No doubt they heard the tires squeal on the pavement and couldn’t help but rubberneck at the wreckage. She can’t bare to look at the couple, they’re probably having sex on the table at this point.
“Yes.” Kevin replies without hesitation and while Spongebob is clearing the table,
Tracey tries to find oxygen amidst unproductive short breathes. If she could she would stick her head between her knees like her first grade teacher showed her after her first public panic attack, but since the table is basically pinning her to the back of the chair - “Was it always this tight in here?” - she settles for her hands cradling either side of her neck, and looks down into her lap.
“Obviously it’s not because of the yolk thing Tracey. Come on,” Kevin deliberately whispers to Tracey’s bowed head. She could hear his eyes roll from under the table. She grasps for air again.
Tracey’s mom used to say that when people break up they discover at least two things. One: The partner who is encouraging the breakup (see also, “the dumper”) will become almost unrecognizable. They have one selfish goal, and that is to get it done, as quickly as possible.
Two: The partner who is being dumped (see also, “the dumpee”) will also become almost unrecognizable throughout the dumping process. Even though the dumpee is within their right to demand a reasonable explanation sighting factual examples to sign off on this break up, they will only find themselves talking in circles, constantly called Crazy or told to Calm Down, until finally forfeiting and dragging themselves home to completely unravel alone.
Because Kevin found tonight so befitting for a breakup, Wu-Tang blaring through the speakers, sitting within an elbow’s distance of the honeymooners and the hot-guys-with-the-pity-eyes, Tracey hopes he’s ready for a show.
On her last exhale, her buried body reanimates. Her cramping shoulders release down her back, she cracks her neck, her hands clasp underneath her chin and her elbows lean on the table. She affixes her gaze back to Kevin, her eyes screaming with intent.
She is, alive.
“I think you owe me some sort of explanation Kevin, if you’re going to say life altering, but totally casual statements like, ‘I think I want to break up.’” She mimics his dumb mouth wide open, pretending to chew.
Right on cue, their server, a bullish brunette with a side part exposing a partially shaved head, peaks around Kevin to address the crumbling couple: “Can I get you two any more drinks?” It took her nearly 20 minutes to take their order, and she chooses now to act attentive.
Kevin waves his hand to gesture No, at the same time Tracey chimes in: “Can I get a bottle of sauvignon blanc?” She cringes through a smile until their server escapes. “If you’re going to sit here in silence you can at least wait until I’m done eating.”
“I didn’t want it to end up this way, ok? I just don’t want to be unhappy anymore and I think you should be able to respect that.” Kevin says flatly.
“I should respect this like you respected me tonight? Like you’ve been respecting me the whole time we’ve been together? Babe can we move in together to save money? Babe can you film me doing diamond pushups? Babe can you rub my dick so I can fall asleep?”
No one was prepared for the octave at which Tracey chose her last words, least of all Oversized Headband, who jumped in her seat, spilling her water all over the table, a public embarrassment she’ll carry with her for the coming weeks. Tracey’s voice had been taken hostage by the impatient bitter bitch she had been stifling deep in her subconscious. All the internal fights she had with Kevin over the past year and a half, the ones she’d mull over on her commutes to work and then swallow when she got home to keep their life unruffled from what she considered irrational neuroses lacking merit, were narrated by this incessant whining voice. It was inevitable that these backlogged imaginary fights would erupt on Kevin all at once and she couldn’t deny how good it felt to watch Kevin squirm at the public mention of her pandering hand jobs.
“Hey, will you calm down? I’m trying to have a normal conversation, you don’t have to turn on crazy mode.” Kevin says this knowing full well, he doesn’t actually know what Tracey’s crazy mode looks like. He leans in carefully, “We’re just going in different directions.”
For a split second, Tracey thinks back to the night Kevin showed her his first workout video. She was nervous for him, for the rejection he might feel being a virtual nobody, but mostly nervous it was the beginning of a huge shift in their relationship, one they might not recover from. She didn’t want to think about that now. The second he threw down the words Break Up, everything, including his sincerity, was tossed into question.
“Posting ads for fat torching tea is not a direction!” Tracey wails.
“I have the Khao Soi, Pork Jowl with brussels sprouts, Pork Belly Adobo, and Crispy Pata here for you.” Spongebob isn’t alone this time, he brought reinforcements to deliver the goods including Tracey’s bottle of wine. Tracey had never been so thirsty for something to drown in and instinctively snatches the bottle from the runner’s spider web tattooed hand to expedite the process. She could feel her ass sweating through the delicate fabric of her dress. The adrenaline stress brings on always resulted in uninvited sweat, percolating in exotic places.
Luckily, the recently dropped off plates are emitting some kind of wonderful smell that reach Tracey’s nostrils in time for her calm down breath. The aroma of herbs, spices and crackling pork skin send a divine wave of relaxation down her body, straight to her stomach, igniting the feeling of hunger back into her consciousness. She wants to keep up the angry, passive aggressive back and forth, but she is overwhelmed by the beautiful food gawking at her. “Kevin has ruined his last meal.”
Like a glutton at Thanksgiving, Tracey rips into each immaculate dish she had been dreaming about since the moment Annie opened her big mouth at work. Charred morsels of brussels sprouts, doused in an acidic, tangy vinaigrette canoodle with slender slivers of pork jowl that taste better than a fine bacon because its mainly the glistening fatty flavor strips; it sends giddy tingles to her toes. This dish could convert anyone who spent a lifetime despising the cabbage relative. Tracey was traumatized by the smell of them steaming in her childhood kitchen, engulfing the entire house in what can only be described as geriatric passed gas. She giggled to herself as she took another monster bite of sprouts, happy to be distracted even if by an off-putting memory.
The Crispy Pata is a slab of pork leg, fried to perfection and sliced into generous rounds. The meat is succulent and tender underneath a thin veil of melt in your mouth skin, destined to be dipped into two delectable sauces. She takes a swig of wine and sets her sights on The Pork Belly Adobo, which feels redundant having already ingested two other decadent pork and egg dishes, but the belly cutlets are immersed in a pool of a soy sauce cocktail and the heat from the Szechuan peppercorns delivers a welcome, lingering spice. She looks to the table on her left again, where the two men are also enjoying the pork belly. “Isn’t this delicious?” She asks, animalistic. The drippings from her last bite dribble down her chin, but the back of her hand catches it before it could continue down her neck. The familiar one, the smoldering blonde, gives Tracey a warm approving smile, which makes her feel like her Joey Chestnut routine is warranted.
Drained watching Tracey’s power eating efforts, Kevin eyes the Khao Soi, the thai chili steam taunting him, and he picks up the accompanying spoon to taste the curry broth. “Don’t you dare.” Tracey barks, “This is my dinner.” She leans over the table and grabs the bowl away from him and places it in front of her realizing the table doesn’t have the breadth to house all of these dishes comfortably, especially if she’s going to hoard them onto her side. Before she can wave her hand, Spiderweb Tattoo arrives to prod another transaction. He boxes up the survivors of her ravaged brussels and belly.
Kevin’s leg is bouncing up and down in uncomfortable anxiety, and Tracey can tell it has nothing to do with what she might do next, but what he’d like to do next - leave.
“When did you realize you wanted to do this?” The first question from Tracey that doesn’t sound like an attack. “Honestly?” Kevin curtly replies, “Probably six months ago.” Tracey’s stomach curdles. Kevin wipes his face from forehead to chin as if he’s trying to wash himself clean.
“You’re great, but I need someone on my level.”
He goes on to admit he had some sort of a cathartic experience after his first 10k, and it made him question everything in his life. Even though he loved Tracey, a solid run left him feeling alive and full of possibility. Tracey wasn’t providing nearly the same emotional affirmations. What he wanted was to be the Patagonia vest sitting next to him, out for a light meal, with his own lithe blonde cutout.
“Did you just compare me to a run?” She clutches the Khao Soi to distract herself and mixes up the fried noodle fixings into the orange tinged, coconut milky broth.
“So when people ask me, ‘Why did you and Kevin break up?’ I’m just supposed to say, ‘He didn’t love me as much as he loved a marathon?’” Kevin raises his hands to grasp at the air in frustration and shoots them back down to cross over his body: “You are impossible to talk to.”
“’Get comfortable with being uncomfortable.’ Isn’t that one of your little sayings Calf Guy?” A thin layer of meat sweat trickles to the surface of Tracey’s upper lip.
The Khao Soi bowl is warm and soothing on her palms, she holds it tight as she takes her first spoonful. Her palate erupts in an electrifying frenzy that reminds her of the pinging icons in a pinball machine; her brain likely ablaze with bouncing lights of awakened synapses. It’s a glorious power punch of aromatics and by far the best thing she’s ever eaten. She squeezes the given lime - “As if it could get any better" - and retrieves an ample pile of delicate noodle tendrils and shredded chicken from beneath the luxurious liquid, creating the ultimate bite. She carefully slurps the contents like it might be the cure for a dying heart. The full effect is spicy, creamy, and above all comforting. It wraps around her insides like a heated blanket, calming the shiver of deflected emotions, leaving her vulnerable to feeling. She starts to feel the stinging pricks in her nose that warn a steady flow of tears is on its way.
“Were we ever happy?” She asks, but doesn’t hear herself, maybe she didn’t want to know the answer. Kevin’s patience is worn, but he’s still trying to be kind. “Yes, and I think we will be happy after this.”
Then he does that thing she hates (but also loves). His back collapses into the chair before letting his whole body, including his neck, helplessly release around it. Tracey wants to say I Love You, but feels a tug under her damp bottom and sees Oversized Headband is stealthily trying to rescue her coat. Tracey moves out of the way, knowing she has likely compromised the fabric, and wishes the couple well. The urge passes.
“Can I please try something? I’m starving,” he says into the ceiling. She pushes the plate of Crispy Pata towards him with an expression that suggests she is doing this for her, not because he asked. She lets him take a bite without interruption, shaking off the incoming tears; she can’t keep this going much longer.
“My mom’s Crispy Pata is better.” Kevin shrugs, shoving in another mouthful.
Kevin’s unsolicited and glib criticism causes the erratic thoughts in Tracey’s spiraling mind to suddenly snap into place, leaving a peaceful landscape for reliable thinking. She knows what she has to do.
“You’re right. This is over, but if this is really the end, I want to do the one thing we never did. The one thing we always wanted to do.” Even when Kevin’s sex drive seemed insatiable, it still remained borderline vanilla, which was why they decided to give into one unachieved sexual fantasy on their upcoming two-year anniversary.
“Tonight? Here?” Kevin’s cheeks flush and he genuinely smiles for the first time all night. Tracey nods: “It’s the perfect goodbye.”
The imposing server crew arrives yet again, and this time Tracey directs them with grace instead of grit. The remaining food is boxed up, and the Bullish Brunette server drops the check. “Halfsies?” Kevin suggests harmlessly, and Tracey obliges, placing her card alongside his on the tray.
Tracey removes one of her shoes and places her foot in Kevin’s crotch, tenderly moving it from side to side, a move courtesy of the Oh, Damn dress. “Someone just left the bathroom. Go in there and wait for me. I’ll settle this up.” Enchanted by her footwork, Kevin carefully slides out of his chair and tries not to sprint.
The second the door closes, Tracey pulls her credit card off the tray and hastily collects her belongings and the leftovers. This Crispy Pata is definitely far superior to his mother’s. She excuses herself as she wiggles through the path alongside her pity-eyed voyeurs, and rifles through Kevin’s jacket to extract his keys. She wishes the familiar smoldering blonde would send her off with a high five or rowdy cheer. She pushes the door outward and bursts through the opening, crossing the finish line. "Tasty out.”
The cool night air feels refreshing on her tired skin, her body curled up in the back seat of an Uber, the window rolled all the way down. Crossing over the Williamsburg Bridge, the city and Kevin falling further behind her, she closes her eyes and finally allows herself to cry. “Almost two years wasted on someone who truly believed I would have public bathroom sex right after he dumped me.” The thought is so ridiculous, that even through the steady flow of tears, she laughs and doesn’t stop until she reaches home, at which point she over tips the driver for putting up with her hysteria.
Entering her apartment lobby, the door catches behind her and she turns to see the mysterious rubbernecking smoldering blonde from the restaurant. Seeing him under the harsh florescent lights she realizes why he looked so familiar, he lives here. Tracey walks towards the elevator, mortified he recognizes her, and worse, what he thought of tonight’s sideshow. “Isn’t this delicious?” She cringes, as the lucid memories of her eating performance resurface. Inside, the smoldering blonde presses his floor button, two floors beneath hers.
“My brother walked in on your date in the bathroom. Any idea why he was naked?” The Smoldering Blonde asks casually, looking at the closed doors.
Tracey stiffens, unsure if she should answer. “Not a clue...”
“Was he embarrassed?” She adds, her ears perked.
“Extremely,” He chuckles a bit as if replaying the awkward ordeal. Even though Tracey feels uncomfortable celebrating a win with a stranger, she lets herself laugh anyway, thankful she’s not alone. He introduces himself as Josh and exits while offering to help her with leftovers if she needed it, the Khao Soi was his favorite. At least she could sleep tonight knowing her one-woman show had a fan.
--
Eventually, Kevin showed up keyless to the apartment and started laying into the buzzer. Even if someone let him in the building, he’d still have to get through the deadbolt. She sat on the living room floor, her leftovers scattered around her, grateful to be away from service interruptions and a cliché ambience. In between satisfying, messy bites of Khao Soi that spat loose broth onto her carpet, she wondered: “Why didn’t I break up with him first?” Not only had she been dumped, but she was dumped by an unemployed fitness fetishist who nearly ruined one of the best meals of her life. The incessant buzzing droned on. “Next time, I’ll order delivery.”
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