Second Thoughts by Kristofer Clarke Page B

telling me his name, and if he did, I had missed it. I opened the wine menu and settled on a bottle of Puligny-Montrachet from France to whet my pallet until Chance’s arrival.
    The waiter arrived with the bottle of wine and a sampling in a small decanter, which he slowly emptied in my wine glass. I sipped and gave him my approval. He poured my wine glass close to full, and then left me to savor its fine taste. The chipotle cornbread that Romeo, the busboy, placed on the table was spicy, but delicious. I had decided to save some for Chance, although his ass should have been on time. He was already thirty minutes late, but I would have been more surprised if he had been thirty minutes early.
    I was halfway through my second glass of wine when Chance came strutting through the restaurant as if he were on time. Actually, he was. He was on his time. I sat back in my chair and watched him exchange a few words with the taller of the two waitresses that had greeted me earlier. She had an ear-to-ear smile, and whatever he had said to her had made her blush. Damn it! That boy always has his charm in his back pocket, I thought.  After she pointed him in my direction, he walked up to the table and sat nonchalantly in the chair across from me, with his elbows resting on the table.
    “Sorry I’m…” he began.
    “Don’t say it, Chance,” I interrupted. “I specifically told you to be on time,” I continued without looking up at him.
    He sat back in his chair, smiling.
    “I was only…”
    He paused and looked at his watch.
    “Damn. Can you forgive me?”  he asked sarcastically.
    He looked at me with a puppy-dog face and laughed. I didn’t crack a smile.
    “Man, Patrick. Lighten up.” 
    “I’ll lighten up as soon as you tell me why I had to fly out here. What’s going on?”
    “Can’t I order first?”
    I didn’t respond to him. I laughed to myself, opened my menu , and began browsing again.
    When it came to Chance, I had to hold back from showing how disappointed I get sometimes. It baffled me how someone so smart could sometimes act like he doesn’t know shit, as if he walked on the basketball court and become stupid, earning a triple-double in the dumb-ass department.
    He was dressed in dusty khaki slim fit jeans and a sunwashed-red utility shirt. His sand-brown eyes were almost completely hidden under the brim of his straw hat. Chance was definitely his mother’s son. He was as handsome as his mother was beautiful. He had nothing from his father but his height. Chance sported a close fade, and often kept his mustache and goatee when he was tired of looking younger than he really was.
    Surprisingly, Chance didn’t take long to decide on dinner. When he indicated he was ready, I raised my hand to get the waiter’s attention.
    “My apologies,” he said.
    The waiter stood with one hand in his pocket.
    “I usually introduce myself first, but just in case I didn’t, my name is Jeff.”
    I accepted his apology, smiling back at him.
    I ordered the grilled summer salmon, which came topped with crab and corn. The scallion beurre blanc sat in a small black dish on the side since my spinach mashed potato, which was presented in a perfect round, was a substitute. Although you couldn’t catch me eating spinach if you paid me, the spinach mashed potato was perfectly prepared. The pecan crusted pork tenderloin with apple marmalade, herbed cream cheese, and fennel apple salad was Chance’s choice for the evening.  I’m not sure where all that food goes, but he’s always been a big eater. He used to eat my mother out of house and home. She used to always tell him he was going to have to do two things when he got older: marry a woman who can cook, or make enough money to hire a live-in chef. So far, he had accomplished the latter.
    I waited until Chance had his third cut of pork between his teeth before I started to interrogate him.
    “You know, you can start talking any minute now.”
    “Damn, Patrick,” he