"I'm so sorry, Francine." I blinked. My words sounded unfamiliar and insincere. That wasn't how I wanted to come across. I had planned it, rehearsed it. This is what I will say. I thought. But then there were so many people and I forgot - the words melded together as I went over and over them until they were foreign. And then it was over. She remembered my name and said thank you. But then we left and she stayed and I cried because I had wanted my words to say more than I did. It was time and then it was too late.
But I still wear my green sweater every chance I get. And I'm still sorry.
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Another Ten Seconds
"I swear to fucking Christ, Amy!"
John was angry. His voice jumped across the living room, bounced off the far wall in the kitchen, and hit his wife in the back of the head. She felt her shoulders tense - her neck, back - everything went on high alert. She stood at the sink, scrubbing and re-scrubbing the same dish until the water went cold.
"Today is the day he kills me." She shut the water off, dried her hands, and waited.
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That Thursday in Davenport, Iowa
The rain water ran over the gravel and rocks, filled the potholes, and washed the winter-salted cars clean and glistening in the street. Arthur hated the rain. It turned the dust to mud and made the floors impossible to clean - his broom only making scratching lines in the grit. The mat by the door was soaked through and leached liquid filth onto the slippery-when-wet tile of the store. It had rained for two straight days and it had been five since the last air-raid. Everyone had read the paper, and heard Roosevelt on the radio last Sunday, but Mr. Moore said that odder things had happened.
"Who's to say them Japs and Natzi's know he said what he said? Maybe they think they won it. They ain't got the wireless on the front. They can still git us." Mr. Moore was old, and deaf in his right ear from his time in the first war to end all wars. He knew what he was talking about. And Bill Jenkins wasn't coming home - not even in a box. Just some tags and scraps of his uniform came in an envelope when the two men marched up to the house on Willow Street.
"I'm sorry Ma'am." and they about-faced and marched back to car, to tell someone else in the next town over- and the next. They drove across the country that way.
The ash dropped from Arthur's cigarette. He thought about Sarah, and wondered if she'd ever take off that promise ring. The windows rattled in the wind. Arthur went outside and faced the clouds, and as the rain pelted his face, he laughed.
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Untitled
It was gray out and misty, when you admitted to never having read that book. It was my favorite and you’d just never gotten around to it. And I thought the day was perfect for the book. The story started out so dreary and cold. But you said you'd read enough already and needed something beyond what would only tire your eyes and make your head ache and yes, you were sure you didn't need glasses. And I thought you would look cute in glasses, so long as they weren't rimless. Those would only make you look old and tired.
"I really think you'll like it."
"I probably would."
"But you won't read it, will you?"
"I might."
I loved to hear you say that, because it meant that you'd already given in but wanted to wait another day, maybe two - or another week - so you could say that you'd made the decision on your own. And I kissed you in my assumed victory and you smiled the same way you always did when I kissed you just there, below the ear, next to the scar that no one could see under your hair that was almost fully grown back now, though softer, like a baby's, and lighter - but still red and unruly. And at five o'clock, with the sun going down and the mist turning to rain, I wrapped you in the shawl my sister made for me for the night I watched the hall, waiting for the doors to swing open, for the doctor to tell me one way or the other. I waited for 15 hours that night and the next morning for him to walk to me, head hung in exhaustion, lay his hand on my shoulder and say that they'd gotten it all.
But that was a year before the day we talked about the book that would have been perfectly appropriate to read when it was wet and cold out. It rained all night long that night. And it rained into the next morning. And I lay there on the couch listening to the rhythms of your heartbeat and the storm against the windows. And I wondered if it would be next week or the week after when my copy of Jane Eyre would mysteriously disappear.
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Untitled
Jenna sat at her table on 16th and third, and watched the other Manhattanites rushing off to everywhere else. This was the hole-in-the-wall cafe that no one seemed to know about except it's current inhabitants. It was only Jenna and the overly-tattooed girl who made rude remarks that she thought were artistic. And yet, there had never been a sign in the window, screaming about a lost least or a foreclosure. Empty as it was, it was always open, even last Tuesday, when the snow came down and stopped the rest of the city in its tracks. The floors were always sparkling clean and the windows were spotless on the inside - thanks to the staff that was always at least twice the size necessary. And, as usual, Jenna was on time and Tim was late.
"Another lemon-ginger tea, please."
The overly-tattooed girl sat in the corner and grimaced. She didn't like Jenna. She didn't like Jenna because everyone else did. Jenna was blond and had a heart-shaped face. She wore pearls and looked good in twin sets. The overly-tattooed girl hated twin sets. She hated Jenna. So she grimaced and sat in the corner, pretending to read a book about philosophy, or was it art this week?
"Where's your date?"
"On his way."
"Isn't he late?"
"He'll be here."
And the overly-tattooed girl smiled. She smiled because Jenna looked worried. She looked calmly uncomfortable, waiting for her drink, biting her lip, and checking and re-checking the door.
Tim was always late and Jenna had gotten used to it. But Tim was later than usual. His text said "15 minutes" nearly half an hour ago. It wasn't particularly windy, or cold, and the rain had stopped. So he should have walked in the door by now just barely in time to offer to pay for the second drink Jenna shouldn't have had to buy, that she had already half-finished. But now, it was twenty to six and still, no Tim. Jenna could feel the overly-tattooed girl staring at her. She was smiling now. Something about "I think, therefore I am" had struck her as particularly funny.
Jenna turned back and watched her pretend to read. She watched the overly-tattooed girl shift her weight in her chair, play with her hair, drum her fingers on the counter. She watched the smile fade on her face. The door chimed and Tim walked in, calm and collected.
"Hey babe."
The overly-tattooed girl grimaced again. She signaled the barista for a refill and turned up the volume on her i-pod. Turning away from Tim's two-day stubble, Jenna would have told the overly tattooed-girl to go fuck herself. But the chair was empty. The overly-tattooed girl was in the bathroom and probably had already thought of that.
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"Another lemon-ginger tea, please."
The overly-tattooed girl sat in the corner and grimaced. She didn't like Jenna. She didn't like Jenna because everyone else did. Jenna was blond and had a heart-shaped face. She wore pearls and looked good in twin sets. The overly-tattooed girl hated twin sets. She hated Jenna. So she grimaced and sat in the corner, pretending to read a book about philosophy, or was it art this week?
"Where's your date?"
"On his way."
"Isn't he late?"
"He'll be here."
And the overly-tattooed girl smiled. She smiled because Jenna looked worried. She looked calmly uncomfortable, waiting for her drink, biting her lip, and checking and re-checking the door.
Tim was always late and Jenna had gotten used to it. But Tim was later than usual. His text said "15 minutes" nearly half an hour ago. It wasn't particularly windy, or cold, and the rain had stopped. So he should have walked in the door by now just barely in time to offer to pay for the second drink Jenna shouldn't have had to buy, that she had already half-finished. But now, it was twenty to six and still, no Tim. Jenna could feel the overly-tattooed girl staring at her. She was smiling now. Something about "I think, therefore I am" had struck her as particularly funny.
Jenna turned back and watched her pretend to read. She watched the overly-tattooed girl shift her weight in her chair, play with her hair, drum her fingers on the counter. She watched the smile fade on her face. The door chimed and Tim walked in, calm and collected.
"Hey babe."
The overly-tattooed girl grimaced again. She signaled the barista for a refill and turned up the volume on her i-pod. Turning away from Tim's two-day stubble, Jenna would have told the overly tattooed-girl to go fuck herself. But the chair was empty. The overly-tattooed girl was in the bathroom and probably had already thought of that.
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