Melissa O. Fuller

Art by Kwanna Wise

I should be sitting across from him, at dinner, for the very first time. Legs crossed beneath the table, like a lady. Manicured nails, palm cuffed beneath the chin. Right hand. Four carat Diamond ring. Left. A restless sigh, blows the hair from my eye. I sit up straight, fingers tapping, I wait. Lipstick stains on the twice filled glass. Flutes remain print-less, as if we had that syndrome that would make us untraceable in the case we committed a horrific crime.

Through squinted eyes I peer over the shoulder of the pesky waitress as she asks for the third time if I need a drink. This time, I should say, “Yes, a Bob Marley, please,” as a tyro rendition of “No Woman No Cry” drowns my thoughts. Instead, my attention shifts and I spot an older couple; maybe in their seventies. He, once a restless scientist toiling to find the cure. She, a district attorney wishing she’d worked a little less. Just enough to raise the little angel child that crossed her mind every now and again. Now, she was left to nurture the companion of failing health she met at thirteen. Once a man, twice a child. Nevertheless, they had love. Love that withheld through lonely dinners, missed birthdays, long research sabbaticals, grueling court cases, and chemo. At the end of the journey, they still had each other, I imagined. I wondered if we would.

The sound of thunder brought me out of my daze, nearly spilling my glass of Perrier. I acknowledged my foot which seemed to be rapidly tapping on its own, felt a familiar impatient tingle, and squeezed my thighs tighter. As rain broke through a sky of gray clouds, I shook my head and watched it hit the pavement. Picturing him bouncing out of a giant drop, I gazed through prestige windows that made me feel just as small as I did when I first moved to this city. His city. His streets. His bright lights. His big apple. His favorite restaurant. His birthday. His ass is an hour and a half late. He loved his work and I’ve always appreciated music as the heartbeat of life, but I never imagined it taking away the love of mine.

My napkin fell as I got up to rush to the restroom. A bladder infection on top of a ravenous stomach wasn’t going to help any. After relieving myself, I stared at my round face, almond eyes, and pouty-when-distraught lips. If I wore foundation, I would have piled it on. If I wore blush, I would have painted merry cheeks. Charcoal eye liner and deep cherry lipstick only highlighted my mood.

Walking back I notice the elderly couple had vanished. That quick? As if they were never there. Through blurred vision I spot a man standing at my table, running his forefinger around the rim of his glass. Excuse me, I thought. What the hell? As I got closer to the table, a lump filled my throat and my steps became weak. Fear and hesitation suddenly consumed me. I’ve never liked long black trench coats. Men in black with their emotionless stares. I approached him, ready, so I thought. Was it someone from the industry? When our eyes met and his shifted, I knew it was the end.

It only took a few seconds to lose control. My hands shook, my feet quivered, lips trembled and tears fell. Memories flushed my mind. Just Married scripted on the back of the Maybach because he only rode in style. Black sand between toes on Waianapanapa Beach. Nights of coition on feather beds beneath the stars. Long talks about what each of our seven children would grow up to be. Whose lips and eyes our grandchildren would have.

In that moment, I realized I’d never sit across from him. Never wonder how life would’ve been if we made every dinner date. Arrived on time to every birthday party. Worked less. Took more vacations together. No children. No chemo.

Just, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Kest.”

11/18/2009