“How was everything folks? Can I get anyone another drink? Another glass of wine?” our waiter asked making a last minute pitch to solidify a generous tip.
“Nope, we’re all set. Could we have the check please? We’re trying to catch a movie,” my husband replied.
“Sure, do you need the check split?”
“Yup. Could you just split it between the three couples?”
All of a sudden a puzzled look came across our waiter’s face. Our formerly fast-talking and gregarious waiter suddenly began stammering, wrinkling his eyebrows and looked like it hurt for him to think. Either that or he was constipated. I began laughing because I knew the cause of his perplexed look. We were three interracial couples sharing a meal dinner together and he didn’t quite know “who to pair with whom.”
Strangely enough, my husband and I find ourselves stating, “Yes, we’re together,” most often in places projected as bastions of progressivism like the prepared foods counter at Whole Foods, the Trader Joe’s cash register, the Summer Farmer’s Market, Macy’s or the elevator in our apartment building. How ironic then that so many people in so many “open-minded” cities question the idea that a man and a woman, of different races, could choose to be together on purpose.