wicker

i'm with jason and his girlfriend elizabeth. we're out at a cafe in robertson park just passing time on a saturday afternoon. there's a party later, on the southeast side, and until ten we seem content to just sit back in our chair and watch life go by. beth's phone rings and she animatedly tells someone to come join us.

it's ian, her former classmate at georgetown. he lives in the neighborhood. he arrives a few minutes later and instantly i don't like him; there's just something about his stance--it seems aggressive rather than confident, confrontational rather than exploratory. he stands there with his sunglasses perched on his forehead and eyes all of us, his hand firmly on beth's shoulder. i see jason shift slightly in his chair.

ian suggests we all go out to dinner at les halles. "i can get a table, doneski." at this point i figure what the hell, i'll go along with this: i have nothing better to do, i don't want to leave jason in his own private hell, i do quite enjoy good french food. perhaps i am a masochist for discomfort at times.

we pile into ian's audi and drive the six miles to the restaurant. i sit in the backseat watching the houses fly by in the late afternoon sun. i think about what the people are doing inside each one, who is fighting, who is making love, who is asleep, who is anticipating a night that might change their life, who is secure in an evening where everything stays the same.

at the restaurant ian approaches the stout, taciturn maitre d' and whispers something. I see a bill flash quickly between his hand and the host's stand. having refrained from doing so yet, i allow myself this opportunity to roll my eyes. ian sees this and the corners of his mouth turn down on reflex.

we are led to a respectable table outdoors, on the patio. the setting is nice enough. low yolk-colored walls surround a large parallelogram of space, the floor sleek stone and lights positioned discreetly at various positions. the effect is one of tranquility, a refined ambiance. just enough darkness to relax you, just enough light to remind you not to get too comfortable.

we are sat and ian starts making a fuss about the water being poured. "you don't have voss? i'd expect better," he tells the mexican busboy. i am sensing this dinner will be an ordeal. beth smiles at him cordially and he grins back at her, eyes locked. jason checks his iphone with a feigned concentration.

the amuse arrives, something or another with foie gras. ian pauses his soliloquy about the problems with his new apartment to insist on serving the dish himself. the startled waiter hesitates between acquiescing and suddenly the plate is upturned, its contents spilled all over the tablecloth. ian begins cursing and time seems to slow down as i take a deep breath and wish i was anywhere else. i scan the room, see the other tables trying desperately to ignore us, and there, being seated in a corner near a babbling fountain, there you are.

it's like a movie how ian's babbling just slowly fades away as i rise up from my seat. the rest of the patio, the rest of the city, the rest of the world blurs and you are the center, in clear focus. you're in a red dress, your hair pulled back loosely and your purse on your lap. as they fill your water glass you scan the room and there you see me, striding towards you and you smile. it is a sunrise after a night in the hospital, it is truly the light at the end of a smoke-filled tunnel.

we make small talk. i pull a chair up next to yours. you are waiting for a date. it has been a year, i don't know why. i can see the reflection of the lowering sun in your eyes. at one point i say the hell with it and as you tell me about how your work is going i brush my cheek past yours, listening, nodding. i can smell the shampoo in your hair. it smells like when we were young. you reflexively reach for my knee and stroke it, slowly smoothing out a crease in my jeans. your date arrives. he's blonde, hair slicked back, designer shirt. i don't feel any jealousy. i take your hand and say "well, until we meet again," cheerfully. i smile at the date and shake his hand. "old friends," i tell him. he grins politely before turning his attention to her.

i walk back to the table. the most unappetizing dishes are presented, all crude browns and wan whites, sickly green speckled here and there. ian says something about me being too good for the rest of them and i tell him rudely to learn to relax. after a sip of wine i get up and leave the restaurant. the maitre d' scoffs softly as i walk out and i think about saying "fuck you."

i walk fifteen blocks in the reddish sunset to kingsway, where i catch a downtown bus. the traffic hums along, punctuated occasionally with the low rumble of bass or a shrieking horn. staring out the bus window i see an ambulance far off in the distance, its white and red lights flickering like diamonds and rubies deep in the bottom of clear, still water.

i get home and lie down on the sofa. hours later jason and beth arrive home, arguing. they are drunk. jason stops in the doorway of the living room and gazes down at me as beth slams a door down the hall. he shakes his head.

i nod. i can hear the lamp buzzing softly in the silence.