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Imagine walking into a restaurant wishing you could become part of the walls around you. For the next couple of hours, you just want a little peace.
And it’s not like these tics can be masked. Dystonic tics are slow, long and painful. Every second feels like an hour at the best of times, at home without an audience. They feel even longer here somehow.
You can’t let tics out as a simple foot tap, or a subtle cough. It’s multiple body parts at once, and the first thing staff see as they greet you. You feel them assessing you, even if they aren’t. It feels safer to assume they are.
They regretfully tell you that the quiet corner table has already been taken. You did put a request in when booking, but it’s a roll of a dice every time. Today just wasn’t the day.
You sense other guests staring at you before you even reach the table. Some diners are discreet about it, some are so curious they don’t even realise they’re looking over.
It’s nice that the waiter is trying to ignore your tics, but it’s also a little awkward. You both know what he’s thinking… he’s probably going to joke with the chefs in the kitchen about it. Every laugh you hear in the distance feels like that anyways.
The night goes on, the starters and mains are finished. You look forward to dessert, a reward for a difficult evening.
‘Not tonight, kitchens closing.’
But is it?
He said it was, but they didn’t warn us at any point. And another table is getting dessert right now. They must have ordered a little earlier.
Another symptom of Tourette is second guessing everything. Is it really closing or am I being pushed out? Why was the other table laughing that one time? And the staff whispering?
It doesn’t matter anyway, the taxi’s pulling up.
I enjoyed myself, I guess. The overthinking not so much, but the food was nice. I might go there again.