BYO Dream

Sheba's birthday is the next day and she's having one of the big BYO dinners we've been doing for all our birthdays this summer. We're excited about the venue--the cheap Indian food spot on 1st Ave.--and decide to go that night as well.

A bunch of us pile on to the special mode of transportation Sheba arranged for her birthday. It's a row of square white tables with chairs strung together and dragged by an engine in the front. There are no wheels on the tables or chairs. It's rickety and doesn't maneuver turns well. Normally you can order food and drinks for your table while being scraped over the streets of New York, but that feature won't be operating until Sheba's birthday. I spend the ride discussing with someone the pitfalls and potential of this apparatus.

Shuvo and I are excited and happy to arrive, and we walk over lawn with tacky lighting to the front of the restaurant. He slips in through the window and disappears into the restaurant, which is glowing yellow, leaving me behind. I decide not to call out to ask him to wait. The waiters see me, give me slight smiles and nods, and move some candles from the windowsill so I can crawl in too. I become nervous about the challenge of climbing in through the tiny window opening in my short dress without flashing the restaurant patrons. There's a jukebox on the windowsill blaring Rihanna's "Shut Up and Drive," further cramping my entrance and irritating me. I'm aware of the nearby front door that could afford me a much simpler entry, but I don't want to disappoint the waitstaff by taking the easy way, even though they're paying me no mind.

After a struggle I make it through the window and find myself in my parents' bathroom. I called Shuvo but his phone was there, ringing on the bathroom counter. I pick it up and stalked away with both phones in my hand.