BY RUTH HAWLEY
Copyright is held by the author.
HE’S LEFT little clues all over the house, so that I can remember what we used to be like. This morning: a plastic bag from Kohl’s, flung haphazardly on the counter. Inside, next to a fresh receipt, I found a large white t-shirt and red panties — the cheeky kind that, when we were young and newly dating, highlighted the fold bordering my taut thigh. I’d change into these “pajamas” and snuggle close to him while we watched a movie, tracing my hands along his hip bone, beneath the soft hem of his t-shirt. I was more interested in following the rise and fall of his waistline than the plot on the screen. Mornings after, he would cop feels of my ass poking out of those panties, while I reached on tip toes for his favorite coffee mug. I’d feel his hands around my cheek, and he’d whisper, “Got ya,” after which we’d find the counter or the couch, or if we were really feeling wild, the back porch. Sex was never the problem for us.
He wasn’t there to feel me up this morning, but I reached for the oversized t-shirt he’d bought for me anyway. Something happened. When I stepped out of my tattered old nightgown and into this love note, I started to see more messages from him. On the fridge calendar, DATE NIGHT was written in his familiar hand on the twelfth. Today. He must have penned that up there when I wasn’t looking. I leaned back against the counter and the cool of the cabinets surprised the back of my legs, a reminder that I couldn’t go out of the house half-naked. So, after finishing my coffee, I went upstairs and got on with the day. I slipped into a trustworthy black dress and left for work, like it was just another Friday. I didn’t need to overthink what lay ahead.
But when I arrived at my office, there was no more playing it cool. There were flowers waiting for me on my desk. I didn’t need to ask Louisa, my assistant, who they were from. Only one person would know that sunflowers were my favorite.
It was around four when my phone dinged with a notification from Open Table. John must have added me to the reservation from within the app, so it would remind me in case he forgot to tell me his grand plans for the evening. Which he often did, until it was too late and I was in the wrong outfit or had already started preparing a home cooked meal. But today, his message made it to me on time.
In the sterile corporate bathroom, I gave myself the once-over and decided I looked good enough to head straight there. If I went home now, I’d just have to turn around and come right back to where I was.
“What can I get you?” A tall man, in a clean white shirt, asked as he placed a coaster in front of me, while I moved into a chair at the bar.
“I’ll take a glass of your best chardonnay,” I said, exhaling deeply and relaxing my jaw, starting to finally release all of the tension that I’d been clinging to the past few days.
“Make that two,” a deep voice emerged from behind me and I felt the owner’s presence slide into the seat adjacent to mine. There, next to me, was a very attractive man. He was bald, which doesn’t usually do it for me. But I’m a sucker for big smiles and radiant eyes the colour of the ocean.
I used to describe John’s eyes as azure.
But this wasn’t John.
I peeked at my watch — no need to worry. There were 45 minutes before the reservation. What’s wrong with a bit of harmless flirting?
“Can’t resist a good Chablis?” I teased him; my skepticism palpable. There aren’t many straight men who jump at the mention of white wine.
“More like I can’t resist the chance to share a glass with a fellow comrade in misery.”
My face dropped.
“No offence,” he continued, laughing to try and make me feel reassured and comfortable. “I just, well, I guess you look like you’ve had a rough week. And that you have good taste.” He took a sip. “Mmm, I was right.” There was that smile again. Then he popped his foot on the edge of my chair. His posture was confident and relaxed, like an open door. Sexy. “So, what brings you in, if it’s not just the end of a long week?”
“My husband,” I said, taking another big, oaky sip.
“Husband, huh?” He leaned in, eyeing my empty finger. “Too cool for wedding rings?”
“I lost it in the garden.” That much was true.
“Oof,” he said, shaking his head.
“No, it was the best thing ever. The ring was his mother’s, totally ugly.”
“Well, then. Cheers.” He clinked my glass, and I could tell he was enjoying himself by the colour that was rushing to his cheeks. From the warm pain in my cheekbones, I knew I was too.
“So, you’re still married, then?”
I gestured to the bartender for another round before answering.
“I’m a widow, actually.” It was the first time I’d said this out loud.
“Oh, gosh,” and after the shock of it, “I’m sorry.”
“Thank you. John was a wonderful man. My first love.”
My companion took another sip. He wasn’t running away from me, from this. I liked that. Earnestly, he said, “Tell me about him.”
I tried to blink back the tears that I felt pushing at my eyelids. “Well,” I began, “He always took care of me. Whatever I needed; John was there.” Should I go on? I took another sip. “I was in a really bad car accident when I was a little girl. I’ve hated driving ever since. John knew that and never complained, not from the first time I asked him for a ride. He said he liked the extra time it gave us together.”
“Do you still not drive?”
I looked in his eyes. So blue. Gentle. Familiar. “Only in emergencies. Like, if someone needed to get to the hospital.”
“I see.” He adjusted his chair, and when he did that, I could smell musky cologne. The familiarity of it made my heart race a little.
“Would you drive me home?” I asked him. The wine had gone to my head, but I didn’t care.
“What, like, right now?” He was clearly confused, but I wasn’t. I doubled down and held eye contact. “Um,” he said, and then, “sure.”
“Thanks,” I said, shaking a bit as I went to pull some cash from my wallet, but he waved me off. I couldn’t help feeling flattered.
He had a nice car that the valet hurried to bring around. It had cream leather seats and every control was electronic. I took deep breaths while he drove, trying to calm my racing heart as we neared the brownstone John and I had called home for 23 years.
His mother and sisters watched me step out from this handsome stranger’s car, totally aghast. Also clad in black, they rushed over and took me in their arms just before I collapsed. “You’re not John,” my sister-in-law, Tina, said to my chauffeur, and we left him on the curb.
“Kathy, where have you been?” My mother-in-law whispered into my ear with venomous judgment. “Guests have been arriving for over an hour.”
“Mom, stop,” said Tina. “Are you OK, Kath?”
But the witch couldn’t help herself, and she continued to badger me. “Did you really go to work? How did you even get there?” she questioned.
“I took an Uber.” Our car had been totalled in the accident. We were one exit away from the hospital. I’d have to get a new one once the insurance money came through.
Once we were inside, I jolted back to life when I saw sunflowers sitting on the entry table.
Louisa must have brought them from the office, I told myself. A person can’t send flowers to their own wake.
***
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Ruth Hawley has an MFA in Creative Writing from Stonecoast at the University of Southern Maine. Her writing has appeared on the The Write Launch, CommuterLit, and The Twin Bill (2023 Best of the Net Nominee). Her website is www.ruthhawley.com, from which she sends a delicious little newsletter called Weekly Bites. She lives in Bremerton, WA, U.S.
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