Diane was nervous.  She watched Jason gnaw on his lower lip and knew that in
spite of the good front he was putting up, he was nervous too.  Perhaps she
should have chosen someplace noisier for this occasion, but it was his 28th
birthday and she wanted it to be special.

She¹d worn a burgundy velour dress with a low neck, knowing that she would
be terribly over-dressed for any place on a Sunday. But if Jason were going
to be sitting across from her for two hours, looking at her from the other
side of an expanse of white linen table cloth, she wanted him to have
something to look at and think about touching later. And to her Jason looked
so handsome in his navy pin-striped suit.

The maitre d led them to one of the tables in a row along a banquette.  On
one side sat a couple in their early sixties, about a decade older than
Diane.  On the other side two men, in their forties.

Diane was determined to be festive.  She asked Jason to choose the wine,
knowing that nothing on this menu would have "notes of bubble gum and cotton
candy."  The worst that could happen would be a rose, and even that would be
a good one.

Diane made a toast for Jason¹s birthday, and they were discussing the
quality of the rack of lamb they¹d ordered for dinner, when they heard from
one of the men say, "Elle n¹est pas son mere."

While it was certainly true that she is not his mother, nonetheless Diane,
did not enjoy having the nature of her relationship to Jason be the subject
of speculation.  The two men continued their discussion in French.  Diane
had majored in French in college; Jason had recently returned from two years
in France working for Euro Disney.  Diane watched Jason¹s face evolve into a
perfect model of frustration as the men continued talking about them.  Diane
could feel herself flush.

And then Jason began to speak to her rapidly in perfect Parisian French.
She answered in French.  What they said had two meanings.  The first was
trivial, had to do with food.  And the second, addressed itself to the two
men. 

The man sitting next to her switched to German, commented that it was
amazing how many people spoke foreign languages these days. Now, Diane
understood German, had spent some months in Germany, but thirty-five years
earlier.  She could understand well enough, but she was nearly speechless.
And all the words she could think of to say were hateful, as unkind as those
she had just heard.

She turned and stared at, studied the men, earnestly leaning towards one
another, with their impeccable, nearly identical haircuts,  with their
over-priced designer eyeglass frames,  with their lambs wool  cableknit
crewnecks worn over dress shirts. How their manicured nails gleamed in the
candlelight! They might have been mannequins plucked from the window at
L¹uomo. 

The waiter brought course after course, while the men served up pointed
comments about Diane and Jason.  The two of them together were specimens
being turned under a bright light.  The two of them, together...Until that
night Diane and Jason had lived  apart from the world, and they had not had
a real shared emotion other than their infatuation with one another.

For the next few years it was a joke between Diane and Jason, sometimes in
bed after sex after they finally fell away from each other, or as they
walked hand in hand to the movies, one would turn to the other and say,
"Elle n¹est pas son mere."