Tiny Bubbles and the Tights

I do it for the romance, you know.

Because I certainly don't  morph from a lazy afternoon magazine-reading sloth to making myself presentable in public for any other reason.

It happened over a dog.

(cue gypsy accordion music)

When I sat down at Bistro Bobette, I was the only customer at the bar.

It worked to my advantage, garnering me a tasting of Michele Turgy Champagne, an unexpected delight they're considering carrying.

Even better was the Jean Vesselle Brut Rose de Saignee, a deep pink and complex sparkler that almost qualified as chewy (GB, this is your kind of bubbles), so I got a glass of that.

Finally another customer approached the bar and I was told he was a regular and quickly given his name and occupation.

It made it easier to greet him by name and see the look of confusion on his face since he'd never laid eyes on me before.

We were introduced and we started talking with and without the bartender joining us, until we both got hungry.

He'd never had the Bobette dog, and asked about it, allowing me to share what I liked about it (everything).

I got one myself to make it seem like a good idea. Actually, I was going to have one anyway, but he didn't need to know that.

Come on, it's the chef's recipe executed by Sausgaecraft with harissa mustard and Gruyere on crusty bread.

Oh, and a mountain of frites so perfectly cooked and seasoned that ketchup seems like a crime against cuisine.

We talked about music, discovering we had very little in common; he likes old, I like new.

(fade in Journey and out quickly, fade in Dum Dum Girls))

He told me about a bunch of restaurant projects he's worked on, so we knew some of the same people.

The conversation was quick and we laughed a lot.

We even discussed the definition and execution of creativity.

Then, as I sat there in my floral-patterned magenta tights, he told me that he has a tights fondness. Well, actually a fetish.

A stocking fetish.

(sound of record being scratched)

Which came off as more comic than anything because we'd just finished discussing his personal life.

He's been dating a girl for eight years. "First off," he said, "I love her."

She has the misfortune to be married (to someone else) with children. They have agreed to stay together until the kids are out of school.

Meanwhile, the Mrs. and tights fan have been meeting for lunch Monday through Friday for eight years, biding time until she's free.

He misses her terribly on the weekends but thinks she's worth waiting for.

Maybe it was those lovely pink bubbles, and I know the whole situation is wrong on one level, but that devotion struck me as very romantic.

And yes, she does the whole tights thing for him.

(cue vamp)

But lunch every day for eight years? Isn't there a romantic comedy in there just waiting to be filmed?

So, yea, I had a hot dog with a tights fetishist tonight, earnestly discussing holding out for your own true love.

Top that.