There was this one Italian restaurant, fancy-looking and with a name that was fun to purposely butcher, which Gilbert always seemed to notice whenever he walked by it on his way to The King’s Arms. He grew more curious with each passing glance until it escalated to the point that one day, after having finished a short story for a history periodical, he decided to change up his routine for once (usually he’d either be getting drunk at the pub or dead asleep after a manuscript was done) and allow himself a ‘fancy night out’.
After looking up the restaurant’s contact number and calling for a reservation, he took a quick shower, then donned one of his better pairs of denim pants, a dress shirt, and a blazer which he hadn’t worn in a while and was therefore kind of dusty. It wasn’t the most refined outfit, but Gilbert could care lesst. He really just wanted to eat some fancy Italian food.
He noticed the maître d'hôtel and a couple of patrons give him a disapproving glance as he strode into the restaurant. Whether it was because of his clothes or his hair or his general albino-ness, Gilbert wasn’t sure, but he delighted at how the maître d became momentarily flustered once Gilbert told him he had a reservation, and suddenly the man was all welcoming smiles and accommodating.
The place was nice, Gilbert mused, looking around the dining area as the maître d led him to his table. He certainly understood the appeal, and couldn’t help but smile a little at the sight of a couple of kids who were clearly enjoying their food with their family. Briefly, Gilbert lamented how he’d forgotten to ask someone to go with him. Like Feliciano, maybe. He was pretty sure Feli would love the food here, being Italian and all. Gilbert would definitely have to invite him next time.
Once he was sat at his table and presented with a menu, he asked the maître d for a cup of coffee--as he was pretty sure he’d conk out soon if he doesn’t get any caffeine in his system--and nodded as the man gave an affirmative before walking off. Flipping the menu open, he took a glance at the page only to promptly close it back shut. There was no way he was going to bother deciphering those Italian food names. He could just ask the maître d (or whoever his waiter would be) for a recommendation or something.
To pass the time as he waited for his coffee, Gilbert reached into the book bag he had carried and pulled out a small, stapled bunch of papers. It was the final manuscript for his short story which he had recently finished. He had brought it along with him to hand over to the editorial department after he’s done with his meal. He figured it wouldn’t hurt to give it a final read-through (and maybe correct some errors he’d missed), so he sighed, shifted a bit so he was sitting more comfortably, then got to work.
