I juggled my load, and expertly whipped my phone out of my purse. Although my arms were heavily laden with bags, I could find my cell phone with my eyes closed, if needed. I was like a soldier who is trained to assemble his gun, piece by piece, while blindfolded and hanging upside down with a bomb about to explode. I didn’t need to stop walking or even look at my purse. My fingers were calibrated to its touch. It was a text from Jesse, “We’re running ten minutes late. Get us a table. It’s reserved under Laurent’s name, Garcon.”I walked into the restaurant. It was a tapas place, decorated Spanish style. “I have reservation, a table for three. Name is Garcon,” I said to the host.“Oh yes, Ms. Garcon. Your table is ready. Right this way.”“My name is no—,” I attempted a response, but the host was already too far ahead of me to hear.He pulled out a chair. “Here you are. Your waiter will be right with you. Would you like for me to store your bags while you dine, Miss?”“No, that’s fine.
