Mine: A Love Story by Scott Prussing Page A

the double glass doorway into a single, nearly square room. It’s not all that big, but it’s crowded with tables. Even so, I doubt the place holds much more than a hundred people. It’s about three-quarters full now. The smell of grilling beef is stronger here, reminding me I haven’t eaten since lunch, and the chattering conversations are a bit louder than I would have expected. I’m guessing that at least some of the kids have had a few drinks before coming to watch the festivities.
    I slide my arm inside the crook of Chris’s elbow. “You take me to all the nicest places,” I tease.
    He laughs. “What, you don’t like plain and crowded?” He leans over and kisses my hair. “It’ll be fun, I promise. And the food is surprisingly decent.”
    The hostess guides us to a small round table on the far side of the room, closer to the back than the front, but as I said, the place isn’t very big, so there really isn’t a bad seat in the house. I take the chair facing the makeshift stage—a raised square platform no more than ten feet across covered with black felt—and Chris sits down opposite me. There’s an old acoustic guitar leaning against the wall at the rear of the stage and a beat up piano to the right. I’m glad we’re far enough from the front that no one will see which table Chris came from if he gets up onstage and bombs. The hostess hands us each a plastic menu and scurries away.
    I look around at the people near us. All college kids, of course. I spot a couple of fedora hats, some pink and green streaked hair, and a bright green, blue and yellow plaid sports jacket the guy must be wearing as joke. He has to be a comedian. If not, I feel really sorry for the girl sitting next to him, who is actually kind of cute. I take that back—I feel sorry for her even if he is a comedian.
    I flip open the menu. It’s pretty basic. A few appetizers and four or five kinds of hamburgers with corny names like The BuzzBurger are listed on the left side, while a bunch of sandwiches fill the right. Beverages and a couple of desserts are on the back. I settle on a chicken Dijon sandwich and a diet soda.
    I drop my menu onto the table. Chris has obviously decided what he wants, because he’s already put his menu down. I’m not even sure he looked at it. He’s been here before and probably knows what he likes.
    A tall waiter with short black hair threads his way over to our table. He’s wearing a loose light blue button shirt with the sleeves rolled up and black pants.
    “Have you two decided what you want?” he asks, bending at the waist so he can hear our replies over the din.
    I order my chicken sandwich and soda, and Chris orders a cheeseburger and a soda. We decide to split an order of fries. The waiter scribbles it down on a small pad.
    “Shouldn’t be too long,” he says before spinning away and heading toward the kitchen.
    “So,” I say to Chris. “You were saying you were going to do what up on stage?”
    He laughs. “Nice try. But I’m pretty sure I wasn’t saying any such thing.”
    I feign a pout. “Oh, my bad. I thought you were.”
    “What’s the matter?” he asks. “Don’t you like surprises?”
    “Sure I do. I love surprises—but only when I know what they are.”
    Chris laughs again. “I’m pretty sure that’s not a surprise, then.”
    “Oh.” I smile sweetly. “I guess I don’t like surprises, then.” Cautious girls usually don’t. I change the subject. “So, how many times have you been here for this open mic thing?”
    “Just a couple of times near the end of last semester,” he says. “This is the first time this year. And before you ask, no, I didn’t sing, or tell jokes, or recite poetry.”
    So much for changing the subject. I decide I may as well go with the flow.
    “Pole dance?” I ask.
    “Ha, ha! You wish.” He puts an exaggerated thinking expression on his face. “You know, maybe that’s not such a bad idea,” he says. “No one’s done that here