My dinner with Novak

We begin with wine. Or, I begin with wine, and Bob jokes about how his glass is filled with the blood of the innocent. We laugh and toast each other.

We feel at ease right away, talking about the movies of the day (I liked Goodnight, and Goodluck. He preferred Norbit), and our favorite yoga positions (I blushed as he described his plow pose). After one glass of wine, Bob and I share a bowl of kalamata olives. Bob talks about how much he likes that word, “ka-la-ma-ta.” He lisps it out in a sultry voice. Our hands touch in the grease at the bottom of the bowl. Bob’s mouth contorts around an olive pit as I tease him about how I thought all the language stuff was under William Safire’s purview.

He spits the seed into his hand. Snarling, “Safire can suck it!” he stands and walks away. I wait. I hope he has just gone to the bathroom. I sweat a little, and try not to be afraid. He can smell my fear, so he comes back.

Bob and I eat Duck Confit with pommes sarlardaise. The meat is succulent. The fatty meet leaks between his teeth as he talks about the good old days when Republicans ran the whol government. He makes fun of Woodward, Tim Russert, my mother, Democrats in general, and the Clintons in specific.

We work through the duck. As Bob leans forward to make a point about how much of a “truth-distorting douchebag” Howard Dean really is, I lean in to kiss him. I see his eyes widen as our lips briefly slide together, lubricated by the duck grease and my concupiscense. For a minute, I think he’ll succumb.
Then, he pushes me away.
“Well, I think that’s bullshit, and I hate that…. Just let me go”
He tells me he’s not that kind of guy. And I pretend to understand.

Bob Novak walks out of my life. I am left with a $600 dollar tab, a pile of half-chewed duck meat, and a broken heart.