on fretting

When being stood up or blown off by a potential date, I like to watch Amelie. Not because it's cute and quirky, not for the dime-store wisdom of the glass man or the innocence of the grocer's assistant or even the cynicism of the café manager, not for the wistful soundtrack, not even for the satisfyingly romantic ending.

I watch it for the scene in which Nino is supposed to arrive at the Two Windmills at 4 o'clock, and at 4:08 Amelie is still waiting and watching the clock tick its desperate hands.

Nino is late. Amelie can only see two explanations. One, he didn't get the photo. Two, before he could assemble it, a gang of bank robbers took him hostage. The cops gave chase. They got away, but he caused a crash. When he came to, he'd lost his memory. An ex-con picked him up, mistook him for a fugitive, and shipped him to Istanbul. There he met some Afghan raiders who took him to steal some Russian warheads. But their truck hit a mine in Tajikistan. He survived, took to the hills, and became a Mujaheddin. Amelie refuses to get upset for a guy who'll eat borscht all his life in a hat like a tea cozy.

It's comforting to think he never called because something horrible and wildly unlikely happened, and not just because he met someone else, or god forbid, just plain decided he wasn't interested afterall.

fine dining

As much as I am a fan of my lunchbox with the separate compartments for cookies and chips and carrot sticks, I'm tired of ham and cheese sandwiches. This week I'm going to try for as many free lunches as possible. You know, like when they have a meeting with a client and then after they put the leftovers on the kitchen table and page, "Food in the cafe." It was Eric's idea.