Café Loup

He showed up at my door in a navy blazer that fit his broad shoulders just right. He looked tall and at ease, a pink collar popping out from under his grey cashmere sweater. I could tell he put some effort into his outfit that night, something he rarely did and, in fact, despised.

“Ready to go, babe?” he said, throwing a plastic bag from Strand Book Store over his shoulder. He always stopped there on his way down to my apartment on 7th Street and Avenue B for our dinner dates, rifling through the $1 sidewalk carts before making his way inside and upstairs and back down again.

“Let me just grab my coat.”

We were going to Café Loup that night, a classic NYC French place in the West Village that has since shut down for unpaid taxes. He loved this place. Black framed photos hung around the entire restaurant; every table had something to look at. White table cloths and brown wicker chairs. Servers who held a napkin over their arms. It had a much different vibe from the diners and casual Thai spots we used to go to regularly. This was an occasion date and he wanted to look nice and he wanted to go to Café Loup. It was the last time I’d see him for a meal out before he would start chemo.

The walk was kind of long to 6th Avenue, but my dad wanted to do it. It was September 22 and the weather was perfect. The kind where you needed a light jacket, but knew it would come off after a few blocks.

We had just started making our way, talking about roommate drama and drama in his department at the college, when the Strand bag came down swinging off his shoulder, making a crunch sound against his Occasion Dinner jeans.

“What’s in the bag, dad?” I asked, already knowing what the answer would be.

He sheepishly pulled out a handful of chips, with a grin begging to stretch across his face.

“Just a little something before we get there!”

We snacked on the way to the Café Loup, admiring buildings and soaking in New York’s fall day. He was partial to the Upper West Side where he lived for more than a decade, but thought it was “so cool” that I was living in a room meant to be a closet, where my bed touched three walls. “Very cool.”

He wasn’t much of a drinker, but the white tablecloths made us feel fancy for vodka. His with tonic and mine with soda and a lime. Fries were the first thing we ordered, the rest we’d figure out after the liquor hit us and our palettes more adventurous.

We were so happy to be there, talking, laughing and people watching. He loved this place ever since he took my mom there. It was that new discovery feeling that he was intent on preserving. The thing is, I don’t remember what we talked about, and not because it was 2014 and it’s hard to remember what I ate for breakfast yesterday. I didn’t remember what we were talking about as it was happening. All I could think about was how that full head of hair was going to be gone soon, and so was he, probably.

When he got up to go to the bathroom I looked around Café Loup. I breathed in the energy of a full dining room, meat and martinis being shuffled around to tables. I released my tears and watched the droplets fall onto the tablecloth. I didn’t want to pick my head up and let anyone see me. So I kept my neck forward, twirling the glass stirrer in my drink with the tip of my finger, not bothering to wipe my soaked cheeks.

My dad pulled his chair out to sit down and I pushed the glass toward me to cover the wet spot I’d created so he wouldn’t see. I pinched my eyes closed as I lifted my head and when I opened them he was there, across from me, holding his hand out.