I Booked a Table for One in Lisbon and Got Two Glasses

The reservation said Bellweather, party of one, and I had practiced saying it without apology. I climbed the hill to a tiny restaurant in Alfama with my chin up and my best linen shirt on, the one that says I have a life and also a dry cleaner. The host looked at his book, looked at me, and led me to a corner table by a window the size of a paperback.

Two wine glasses were already set. I did what any dignified woman does and pretended not to notice, studying the menu as if it were a contract. The waiter, who had the unhurried posture of a man who has seen every kind of dinner, arrived with a bottle, glanced at the second glass, and said, in careful English, that perhaps the evening had other plans.

Two wine glasses were already set.

I should tell you that I said nothing clever. The copy editor in me wanted to flag the error; the rest of me wanted to see what happened if I did not. So I said, very well, leave it, and he poured a little in both. I drank from mine. The second glass sat there across from me like a question mark someone had left on the table.

Here is what I learned: a table for one is not a punishment, it is a stage with excellent lighting. Between the grilled sea bream and the custard tart, I looked up more than I looked down. A couple at the next table smiled at me the way you smile at someone who is clearly enjoying herself. A man at the bar raised his glass an inch, a gesture so small it could have been deniable, and I let it be received.

When the bill came, the waiter removed the second glass with a tiny flourish, as if retiring a guest. I tipped far too much and walked down through the lit streets feeling oddly accompanied. If you like stories where a quiet evening turns playful, Emma on TheFriend has a few voice confessions that live in the same neighborhood of nerve and temptation. I recommend them with a glass of something, ideally poured for one.

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