“Am I fat?” Carla swayed in front of the TV, trying to gauge her reflection.

I bobbed my head side to side, to work around her. I didn’t say nothing because I had nothing to say about it.

“Seriously, do you think I’m overweight?”

I squeezed out a sigh as silently as I could. This was a conversation fraught with difficulty. I crossed an arm and felt my fingers sink deep into my flesh – who couldn’t stand to lose a few pounds?

But it was a Saturday and I’d driven over half an hour to get here and the table was booked. And anyway, what was so wrong about wanting to get some after a hard working week?

I eased up from the chair and snaked around behind her, comparing our widths without a word. Then I kissed her neck and felt the skin slide under my lips, tasting the salt and the bodyspray. She turned towards me and I reeled her in, pulling more on one side so that the TV screen came back into view – or the better part of it.

Her hands rested on my strong arm, leaving my other free to rise up under her breast, moulding it around to my fingertips, feeling the underwire pressing against my pinky.

There was nothing much on TV but I watched it as we swayed together, listening to the sound of her breathing.

“We could always get a takeaway – maybe make a picnic of it on the carpet,” she said, in that voice that suggested she had just thought of something, when she hadn’t.

Ordinarily, a takeaway would have been very nice thank you, but when a man has worked very hard all week, ain’t he entitled to have an evening out with his girlfriend?  And if the restaurant in question has those fine little college waitresses, who scoot along past you, knowing that you’re looking at them and smiling about it, is it any harm?

“And anyway Joe I don’t got nothing to wear…”

Now, I know for a fact that she’ll have something hanging up inside the door, and she’ll know that I know. But a guy has to play it cagey if he wants a meal and a little something special on a Saturday night so I says to her, “I’m sure you’ll look fine whatever you wear.”

And all the time I’m thinking of those little college waitresses, fresh as daisies, and of course she feels me stiff against her.

“Ah Joe,” she says. “You always say the right thing – you’re so good for me.”

Then she goes to get ready and I sit back to watch the TV. And everything is all good and proper. Because I know the food is good there and I know that whatever one of those pretty, pretty waitresses smiles at me the most, well she’ll be the one I’m taking home with me in my head. And later, it won’t be me having some with Martha, it’ll be me when I was eighteen with some perfect girl from college.

So, when we’re at the restaurant and this cutie takes our coats and tells me she’ll come collect us in five minutes, well then we’ll head on over to the bar. And if Martha sets her eyes on the guy behind the bar and she lights up at some casual remark that he makes to all the ladies, well then I’ll know that both Martha and me are in for a good time. It’s only right, what with it being Saturday night and all.

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Derek Thompson is a freelance writer with two narrative voices, one British and the other American. He enjoys peppermint tea, dark bitter chocolate and black & white movies.