Pancakes on the Rocks by Sam Herzog
Pancakes on the Rocks
Luna emerged from the kitchen, sniffling, shivering, picked up her phone.
‘I accidentally sent that photo of your penis to the real estate agent,’ she said.
Luna was hot, a siren. She was so hot that a trainer at the Greyhound track near where I lived once told me that she was way too hot for me. He was toothless and spoke to me through a fence.
Over the course of our eighteen-month relationship, there were twelve men who tried to take Luna away from me, including my own father.
One time, we were at Pancakes on the Rocks. Do you know Pancakes on the Rocks? We were eating pancakes at Pancakes on the Rocks.
Anyway, we were eating pancakes. We were sitting. I needed to go to the toilet so got up and went.
At that moment, I thought: Imagine if a guy just came up right now and sat down in my seat.
As I emerged from the bathroom, wiping my hands on my jeans, I looked up and flinched at the man sitting in my seat. He was wearing sweatpants and a pair of Nike trainers.
He spotted me, hastily concluded his conversation with Luna, then fled into the dark recesses of the restaurant. But before he did, he brusquely scrawled out his number on the back of an old banana and threw it at Luna.
Luna accepted his invitation to watch Star Wars in his apartment late one night. She had a weakness for acts of crazed audacity and the fact that Johann was a perception scientist who’d just been awarded a million-dollar grant from the university drove her mad.
‘During the film, he emerged from the bathroom in his boxer shorts and put his hand on my leg,’ said Luna the next day, as we were walking along the Opera House wharf.
‘You’re joking.’
‘I think there was lube on his head.’
‘Luna, when a man invites you over late at night to watch Star Wars, he wants to fuck.’
We halted before Benny the Seal. Do you know Benny the Seal?
‘You’re wrong,’ she said, putting her hand out to pat Benny. Benny barked, reeled back then affectionately grazed her. ‘I’m having dinner tomorrow with the man in seal boxers.’
‘He’s into you,’ I said.
‘He wears overalls, he’s gay.’
Later that day, I thought of that toothless Greyhound trainer smiling at me through the fence. My plan was that I would sit in the back of the restaurant, hide behind a newspaper, then leap out at a surprise moment with a ticket to Bali. I’d read online that the best thing to do when someone’s trying to cuckold you is to hide your partner across an ocean.
I leapt out from behind a column. In place of Johann and Luna sitting there eating pancakes, there were crumbs on a plate and a receipt snuggled in a leather pad.
I dashed out the restaurant. As I chased down Johann’s sportscar, I tripped over a puppy and crashed into a phone booth.
Luna called me the next day.
‘We should talk things over.’
‘In the park where you made out with Johann?’
‘I’m ending things with him.’
I shook my head, wincing from the throbbing in my leg.
We called the airline. They said they couldn’t refund the Bali ticket without charging a fee that cost the same as the original ticket. ‘You should go with Johann.’
I bit my lip as I stood outside her apartment. Too afraid to see her in person – I didn’t trust myself not to fall again under her spell – I left her box of things with the concierge.
On the bus home, I finally summoned the courage to email the real estate. I’m sorry about the photo, the email read. The toothless Greyhound trainer had won. It was all just one big mistake.
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