“This is for you.” Barret said as he handed over a piece of paper, “and I am taking you to Spanish Tapas for dinner.”
My boyfriend had found time during work on Valentine’s Day to draw me a card. It was awesome and bloody and I was looking forward to a pitcher of sangria.
“This is awesome and bloody and I’m really looking forward to some sangria!”
“Good.” Barret smiled, his upper lip disappearing beneath his mustache.
The lighting was dim and the front dining area full of lovey-dovey customers when we entered the restaurant. A server approached and led us to a table in the rear courtyard.
There was a beautiful light evening breeze and as soon as Barret snatched a lit candle from the empty table to our left, we were ready for a romantic evening. We clinked our glasses together and began devouring a small plate of patatas al ajillo (garlic potatoes).
“So,” I coyly began as I poured myself another drink, “it turns out my oil glands were blocked.”
“Really?” Barret replied.
“Is that what the optometrist said?” Barret asked.
“Yeah. He couldn’t give me an exact reason why, but I think maybe I wasn’t washing my makeup off. I might even be allergic to some mascara or something.”
“So how do blocked oil glands cause dry eyes?”
“Well,” I paused as the BBQ octopus and grilled figs were placed before us. “He told me there are about 80 oil glands on the bottom eyelid and 40 on the top that secrete oil. They’re important because the oil coats your tears and prevents them from evaporating off your eyeball.”
Barret pensively bit a tentacle. “That’s interesting.”
“I know right? How different would life be if oil didn’t float on water?” I sliced a fig in half, placing a strip of bacon on top of the juicy fruit.
The plates were cleared and only ruby colored ice melt remained in the sangria pitcher.
“So I’m supposed to take 1000 mg of Omega 3 pills every day and to use a hot compress over my eyes twice a day. It will help keep the oil glands flowing.” I said. “I mean, I already feel a difference and I have only used a hot compress once.”
“That’s good.” Barret replied as he reached out to taste the chef’s special- veal strips with mushrooms. The thin bits of fried potatoes that covered the dish reminded me of the Piknik shoestring chips my Dad loved to buy when I was younger. It looked odd and a little cheap.
“This is a little too salty and greasy.”
“My thoughts exactly,” I replied. “The figs were delicious though.”
“Yeah,” Barret responded. “Those were my favorite.”
Just before the waitress brought over the dessert menu the Flamenco dancers appeared, two females and one male. The women’s long dark hair was in braids and they wore scarlet red skirts which swished around their bodies. They twirled their wrists and expertly struck their castanets as they danced.
The orange crème brulee arrived after the dance performance. It had a beautiful caramel color and cracked like a thin pane of glass. As I leaned in for another spoonful of the rich and creamy dessert I whispered sweet nothings into Barret’s ear.
“You should have seen all the old gooey oil and sleep that come out of my eyes. It felt wonderful!”
How to get to Spanish Tapas: 26 Glebe Point Rd, Glebe NSW 2037