Almost Lovers
A furrowed brow is never good; even more so when held over two steaming plates of linguine and clams but that is where we find them; two people, picking away in silence at plates of pasta and clams with furrowed brows in the candlelight.
They were neither young nor old; he was several years older than she but she had years more experience. She had been broken into pieces of pain by men, and then made whole again by another and she was sad to know now, that it would happen again.
“We need to talk about it.” She said.
“I thought we had.” He replied.
It was the same tone he used with employees, the voice of finality he used in the business of business was the same one he now used in the business of love and the wine he poured out for both of them could just as easily been water flowing from the crystal pitcher he kept in his boardroom.
She looked around the room taking in the things that were his, the things that were hers and the things that were theirs or at least, she had always considered to be theirs, all the while walking back in her mind over the moments that had first brought them together. The whirlwind of exotic parties and country club dances that had made her feel unique and enriched. The endless monologues of pending deals and the magnanimous way he sounded as he spoke of them had made her feel part of them, part of him. It all seemed a caricature to her now.
How does that happen? She thought. How can something so real one moment turn into a cartoon the next?
“I think, you think we talked about it. When all I did was listen to you make sounds actually.” She said. “Which when you look at it, is exactly what I said is the problem.”
Christ what does she want from me? He thought. Why do women think success springs up like magic bean stalks from an eight hour day, 5 days a week? These things… this life is from being there, at the wheel when everyone else was still sleeping, when everyone else had gone home.
“I AM present, I am here but how many pieces do you think I can cut myself up into? How much do you think I have? I am here, and I am present whenever I can be.” The words came from him empty of anger and resentment. The measured, emotionless tone was the only one, of late, he seemed capable of using.
He remembered the first time they had met and wanted to look at her but instead, stabbed a clam with his polished fork from the swirling angel hair surrounding it and popped it in his mouth. She had been staggering in her black strapless gown at the party and he’d known immediately it would take more than a sugary line and some fancy footwork to gain her interest. He had been willing, she had been able and that was almost two years ago to the day. All that remained for him now was the angst and the guilt. He looked at her now and only felt disdain.
She was watching him do that thing he did so often now, watched him rub the white line around his finger and she did not flinch when she heard the words.
“I don’t want this anymore.” He said.
“Well, you’ve always been sure of what you want…so what, exactly, would that be.” She asked.
He placed the fork down with care, the food looked foul to him now, he never really cared that much for her red sauce.
“To be home. To be home with my wife and my children.”
He looked up and felt light with relief; she was suddenly digging into her food as if recently rescued from a desert island and paused with filled fork in mid air and said with a smile,
“Then that, I expect- is where you should be.”
