Dayton, Saturday, ten a.m. Almost eleven. Jules and I walk down Main Street. At 3rd Street I remember that Jules is black, and I am white, because that is the bus station controlled by black punk teenagers who hate me for being with one they think they own..and hate her even more for denying what they think is a central part of their identity. In private, if there weren’t any police around, they’d hurt me. But they’d hurt Jules even more. And in private, they hurt themselves the most, for thinking that who they are is someone who has pride enough to never be with a white person. Fuck that. I hate fucking racists. I don’t give a fuck what color you are: it’s all the same. That’s 3rd and Main.
A block past that it’s more mixed, you still get stares though. This time it’s from the white hostess who seats us at Uno’s. I swear, Dayton is one of the most racist places I know. When our server comes by, I swear to god, if she gives Jules one look I’m going to ask to be re-seated.
"Can you give us that table in the corner?"
All the booths are labeled. One says "For Aristocrats". The circle booth in the corner says "For Lovers".
"That one?" She stops walking and points, with our menus, to the corner booth.
"Yes, please." I say it in the nicest tone.
So she walks us all the way to the back and Jules is holding my wrist, smiling. Stay calm, dear.
"Is this table gonna be alright?" She says it with what would now seem to me a southern accent.
I’m thinking: This is the table we requested, bitch.
But Jules says: "This is fine," and she takes the menus from the woman’s hand.
"It’s too bright in here," I’m saying.
"You’re cranky," Jules says, and she blows out our candle.
"It just seems too ridiculous to me, that she would be like that."
"It’s normal," Jules says.
"It’s still too bright in here. I’m gonna go ask them if they can turn off the lights—"
"Sit, down." Jules has my wrist again. She’s giggling. She gets up on her knees and leans into the booth next to us (which is empty) and she blows out the candle there.
"It’s still too dark," I say.
"You mean bright," she says, and then Jules blows out the candle in the other booth, the one behind me—without even moving! She throws her breath. It must have been ten feet, from where she blew out this candle.
None of this changes the lighting one bit, but I swear, I wasn’t tripping—she blew this candle out from like ten feet away.
When our server got there she was perfectly nice. She was younger, not a racist. She deferred to Jules and didn’t flirt with me and she wasn’t even too mad when all we ordered was two waters.
And I threw in a clam chowder. But neither of us touched it.