The waiter sat their drinks down in front of them, attempting to slice the tension with a chuckle and an “oops!” as a splash of her cocktail escaped the glass.
It did not work.
As the waiter walked away, it was the husband’s eyes who attempted to cross that chasm mistakenly labeled a table for two. He wanted to reach for her hand, but they were folded in her lap. As he watched this life-worn woman who seemed a million miles from him, he became overwhelmed by all that hung between them…
Stark white, blinding hospital rooms in place of lavish vacations; blood-soaked sheets followed by ambulance rides and wordless grief as sisters and friends gave birth to healthy babies while the two of them shattered upon the floor again and again.
They’d attempt to piece their relationship back together, but each time the glue became less reliable and the cracks wider.
He couldn’t reach her anymore, even reaching across the table would not change that.
~
The heat within her was sweltering, and she hadn’t even brought the cocktail to her lips yet.
She could feel his gaze searing into her.
Why was he just staring at her like that?
She couldn’t bring herself to look back at him, instead, her gaze was burning a hole in the tablecloth connecting them. It was fear that kept her frozen, and she knew this. She was terrified of no longer having this man fill the space across from her– she didn’t know how to lose him.
Nor how to face him. She didn’t want to look at him, because she hated the sight of his face– the sound of his voice… him.
She allowed her mind to drift to the stalactites hanging between them, cloaked in invisibility to the rest of the world, while visible and growing to her…
So many times, he’d left her broken, because work had called.
Work.
Work named Sheila, and that was just this time. Had there been others?
Kisses and indiscretions made up these earthen spikes threatening to destroy her.
How many kisses had there been?
How many women?
He’d lied to her so many times, she knew to ask would only frustrate them both.
The waiter returned, smiling far too widely as he placed their meals on the table. First, her roasted chicken, followed by his veal parmigiana. She knew she could not give this man the satisfaction of watching her enjoy her dinner, though it did smell divine.
Her stomach begged for her to reconsider, but she sat firm. A fleeting thought questioned whether she was successfully punishing him, or only hurting herself.
She lifted her gaze to him, hoping he’d be lost in his food, too distracted to notice.
~
He wasn’t even sure what he wanted.
Some minutes allowed him to think about his wife and who she used to be– who they both used to be, before. He couldn’t deny the other minutes though, which left him longing for the ease of a life with Sheila.
I wish she would just look at me. See me. Please, look up.
As her gaze rose, connecting with his, a jolt shot through him. In flashes, like a fragmented slideshow of deep shadow and white light, he saw it all– the candles and kisses, the wedding cake, the honeymoon sex, their laughter, the blood on her fingers as she screamed she’d lost the babies… the fights, the way her personhood eroded more and more with each loss, and how he felt himself stepping farther and farther away. He knew he had hurt her, and he couldn’t do that anymore.
“I love her.” Did he mean Sheila, or had he accidentally spoken out loud as he’d thought about his wife? He wasn’t sure.
Could both be true? Was he running?
Why is it so hot in here? He could feel sweat pooling at his collar.
“Ok.” It was the absence of emotion, the complete lack of change in the pools of her eyes which decided it for him.
He would divorce his wife and go to Sheila.
As he shifted in his chair, his napkin fell to the floor.
About the Author Mae Wagner
Mae Wagner placed 7th in the Napkin Microfiction contest in May 2021 with her winning micro piece Slow Motion Crash. Mae won a $20 cash prize.
Mae Wagner, married her husband in 1994, and became an adoptive mom with three amazing and beautifully resilient (now fully grown) kids. Mae writes on her blog Rainy Day in May. She listens and collaborates alongside lots of strong and incredible women on her podcast The Rainy Day Collective. Speaking engagements (something she never expected!) have also become a passion, as Mae feels very strongly about connection, relationships and authenticity. She shares photos & microblogs from her life, the good/bad/ugly (but always authentic) on her Instagram. Mae also freelances in the PR/Entertainment industry, though this is less and less as these other parts of her career grow and grow. Mae is currently a writer, life coach and mentor.
