So a handful of suppliers we do a substantial amount of business with, have onsite reps at the hangar where I work. They provide technical and engineering support, as well as the occasional lunch or bagel/donut breakfast. They’re also good for footing the bill for happy hour on occasion.
Last Thursday, a bunch of us went out to lunch with one of these reps, named Sean. We started out at Boston’s, which is OK but not someplace I would choose for lunch, were I doing the choosing. Fortunately for me, there was going to be a thirty minute wait and the clan elected to go somewhere else.
We wound up at Macayo’s.
So while we’re waiting for them to set up a table to accomodate a party of 8, I peer shamelessly into the bar.
I do not see Arria’s husband.
As you may remember from both mine and Eileen’s accounts of our girls weekend, there was a dreadlocked bartender who was very cute and rather generous with his (ahem) margaritas. On our way out to Reggae Night later that evening, I told Arria that I had met her IBM… her Ideal Black Man (I picked that catchy little phrase up from Something New, btw… cute movie).
Arria is still asking me when we’re going to Macayo’s. I have a feeling that, upon reading this, she is going to walk right over the three houses between hers and mine and kick my ass… but in my defense… your future hubby wasn’t there anyway.
So I’m telling Kaylin, my friend and coworker who is the only other person in my office who has a TRUE appreciation for the beauty and substance and sheer pleasure of dark chocolate, about my last dining experience at Macayo’s. And then, I realize who our waiter is.
Oh, yes. It’s Nick. Or, as his name tag proclaims, Niccollicious.
Now, there is nothing spectacular about Nick’s physique… in fact, it’s alarmingly like that of a twelve year old boy.
As Eileen put it, “I could snap him like a twig.”
But he has thick brown hair and soulful brown eyes and a personality that could just suck the soul right out of a thirty-something woman who knows better.
Indeed, by the time I’d downed half of that first margarita, I found that I could no longer look Nick in the eye when he stopped at our table, unless I really wanted to embarass myself by not only blushing, but also giggling like an ass.
So I’m telling Kaylin about this last dining experience, and Sean, the doll that he is, asks Nick how to pronounce his name.
Nick responds, and Sean, with a straight face, asks, “Is that Greek?”
Having not imbibed in any alcoholic beverages or already had my head turned and left swimming by any bartenders, I manage to keep my composure.