A Date with Svetlana

"If you don't mind me saying so, I think you're a bit obsessive," she said with an air of finality, a certainty that was expressed with as much conviction as one might say that he thinks the sun will come up tomorrow morning.

I sat there for a moment as the words echoed in my mind; even though the restaurant was crowded, the weight of her words and the whir of the ceiling fan overhead were the only things that my brain seemed to be sensing in that brief span.

"Obsessive? You say I'm obsessive?"

Her shoulders tightened, and I could tell that she had gripped the edge of her chair with both hands, as though awaiting an attack, verbal or otherwise. Little did she know that I was quietly delighted.

She said nothing.

"That's interesting," I said, pulling out my little purple notebook and my black ballpoint pen. I opened the notebook to page 25 and began writing.

"Wh-what are you doing?" she asked, curious in part that I hadn't taken offense at her remark, but also wondering why I was writing.

"Oh, I write down observations that people tell me about myself."

"What are you writing right now?"

"Well, here's what I have so far. 'April 30, 2009: Obsessive, from Svetlana. She was wearing a jasmine yellow sun dress, white strap shoes, and a matching white bow in her hair.' That's what I'm writing."

She stared at me as though I had just landed on the first ship from Mars.

"I'm wearing Janet Jackson No. 2," she stated a little more loudly than she probably intended.

"What?" I asked.

"She said Janet Jackson No. 2," said the guy sitting by himself one table over from ours. "That's a perfume," he explained. "She told you what perfume she is wearing. Don't you want to write that down too?"

"Ha, you both are funny. No, I think that would be going overboard, don't you? But I do think I'll make an entry in my avocado green notebook."

"Why?" the man and Svetlana asked in unison.

"Oh, I just keep track of when people sitting at other tables interrupt my conversations for apparently no reason at all."

There was an awkward silence, other than the whir of the ceiling fan. Why was the fan bothering me? I wondered that very question. Then it hit me.

"Oh yes, of course ... oh dear, I hope I brought it with me," I exclaimed.

"Brought what with you?"

"My chartreuse notebook. That's the one where I keep track of all the ceiling fans I've seen. It's fascinating, really, one of my favorite notebooks."

"You keep track of ceiling fans?" she asked. She was turning red - or perhaps she had already been red, I wasn't sure, though you'd think I might have noticed that earlier.

I was delighted to find the chartreuse notebook, and I duly made an appropriate entry.

Our waiter showed up at that moment and introduced himself as Bing.

"Bing?" I said. "That's a new one." I pulled out the lime green notebook - my wait staff journal - and wrote down the date, the name of the restaurant, and Bing's name.

Svetlana placed her order - and I wrote it down in the hot pink notebook; and I placed my order, entering it in the beige.

"May I ask, uh, why do you write things down like this, and why all the different notebooks?"

"Well," I began, excited at the opportunity to begin talking about my favorite hobby but wanting to at least appear nonchalant. "Data is important. I read somewhere that data in the world is increasing at an alarming rate. Do you know that there was more data generated this week than in the entire previous history of the world prior to this week?"

"I'm not sure I believe that," she exclaimed.

"Hold on, then," I said, pulling out my lavender notebook. Anticipating her question, I continued speaking without waiting for her to ask it.

"I'm writing down all the times that someone disbelieves that statement about the growth of data."

"Why?"

"It's fascinating, and someone has got to keep the data; otherwise it might be lost forever."

"Tragic indeed," she sighed.

That called for my white notebook, my "in agreement on the importance of data" journal.

"Indeed," I offered. Then I continued. "Hey, do you mind if I ask a few questions?"

"What kinds of questions?" she asked.

"Oh, just some things so that I can get to know you a little better."

"That certainly sounds reasonable. Okay, go ahead," she said, granting my wish. "What do you want to know about? My family? Where I grew up? My religious background?"

"No, not really. First question. In the 1969 World Series, which team was called the Miracle team?"

She thought about it, biting her lower lip.

I pulled out the Amphibian Orange notebook and began writing an entry.

"What are you writing about now?" she asked. She was appearing to become slightly exasperated.

"I am writing that you bit your lip, and then in the gold notebook I need to record your exasperation."

"I am not exasperated," she huffed. "You have a notebook for biting lips and another for exasperation?"

I smiled and said, "Yes ma'am." I felt like I was on top of my game.

"Now ... the Miracle ... who?" I asked.

"Dunno," she admitted, thus confessing her lack of awareness of the significant sports (and thus cultural) events around her in the world in which she lived.

I made an entry in the honeydew green melon notebook.

Her face began turning a sort of pomegranate red, similar to how a child might look who was trying to establish a new world record for holding his breath. It was then that I noticed a droplet of moisture coming out of her right eye. I pulled out the Sky Blue notebook.

"Is that notebook to record when people cry?" she asked.

"Well," I began. "It's the notebook that records when people cry from the right eye. I use a Burgundy notebook for the left eye."

"I, uh, I see," she added. "You're ... you're serious, aren't you?" she asked.

"Well, to be honest, I hardly know you," I explained, perhaps a bit awkwardly. Feeling awkward - that was something else to record, so I reached for the Peach Notebook.

"No, I mean you're taking this thing about recording in notebooks very seriously."

"Well, it's serious business when one records something for posterity that someday perhaps all will see, don't you agree?"

She didn't say anything, but a tear was meandering down her cheek by this point, and she was shaking, though almost imperceptibly.

"Next question?" I offered.

"Why not," she sniffed.

"Do you prefer Hearts or Go Fish?" I asked, naming two of my favorite card games.

"Bridge and Cribbage are my areas of expertise," she said softly. I had never learned Bridge, and I had only started reading about Cribbage after I realized that it wasn't a vegetable and, as such, it didn't have that pungent aroma.

This called for the brown notebook, my list of people and their favorite card games.

In the course of the next few minutes, as we ate, I asked a lot of questions (most of them were ones I had already written down in the Lima Bean Green notebook) and I thoroughly enjoyed hearing my half of the rather stimulating conversation. While delighting in the discussion, I had occasion to pull out the following notebooks: jungle green; fuchsia; teal blue; wild persimmon orange; maize; mahi mahi; violet blue (three times!); and my favorite, Nebraska Cornhusker red. This truly was turning out to be a banner day.

She expressed total amazement at the number of little notebooks I had in my pockets and my travel bag. And then, as she took her first bite into the blueberry cobbler dessert, I mentioned that I had 128 more notebooks with me in the trunk of my car. It was perhaps unfortunate timing on my part because she began gasping for air; and then, with no sound coming out, I knew what I had to do.

I raced to her side of the table, pulled her out of the chair, turned her facing away from me, and I performed the Heimlich maneuver. With one firm squeeze, the cobbler was dislodged from her windpipe and it went flying, making an audible SPLAT! right smack in the middle of the forehead of the man at the table next to ours (yes, the same man who had interrupted the conversation earlier).

As I finished making an entry in my rainbow colored notebook (my Heimlich maneuver journal), she started coughing, and again tears were welling up in her eyes; I thought perhaps she was coming down with something. Not wanting to risk taking ill, I excused myself under the pretense of needing to use the restroom facilities. I found an open stall, sat down, and spent ten minutes recording the events of the evening in any of several notebooks.

When I returned to the table, I noticed that my companion was gone. I lifted the table cloth and looked underneath. She wasn't there.

The waiter approached me and said, "Sir, the Madame has left the premises."

"What?" I asked, somewhat astounded; though I wasn't totally surprised, I thought things had been going swimmingly well.

"She didn't say why. But she paid for dinner - hers as well as yours - and she told me to tell you that by the time I give you this message she will have obtained an unlisted phone number and will have found a new apartment."

I shook my head. "She was a rather strange bird, I tell you," I said, smiling slightly.

"If you insist, sir," he agreed.

"Now where's my zebra striped notebook?" I asked, mostly to myself.

"Pardon?" asked the waiter.

"My zebra striped notebook. That's the one where I record when a date pays for me in a restaurant."

"Oh?" said the waiter, softly.

"Yep," I said. "That's my most favorite one of all."