Dinner Plans
Her eyes are shivering pools waiting to overflow. She stops mid-sentence as her voice cracks and she pushes a few loose strands of hair back behind her ears. Her movements are forced and uncomfortable. Twitchy. She doesn’t want me to know how upset she is.
A variety of consolatory clichés tumble clumsily through my brain. At least I can recognize how petty they all are before I spit out some unintentionally condescending remark. She appreciates honesty. She always has. So I close my mouth and awkwardly stack my hands on the table in front of me, shifting my eyes briefly down to the shimmering, golden circle polluting the situation as much as it’s polluting my mashed potatoes.
Now there’s poison in her shaky stare. It’s ugly and scathing. She makes me hate her when she looks like this. She thinks it’s putting me on edge, like her scorn will make me reconsider. It’s the same juvenile tactic used by kids who’ve just been punished by their parents. It really just makes me want to scream at her—stand up from the table in a burst of profanity and calculated attacks that will turn her into a sobbing, slobbering, borderline-suicidal mess. God, I want to dig my fingers into her pale cheeks just to change her fucking expression.
And I feel my own face changing color, turning from its usual pallid tone to a glowing, angry crimson. I want to tell her how stupid she is for expecting anything other than this. Instead, I take a deep breath and try to embrace the stifling silence, like if we continue to sit without movement or speech the universe will forget we exist and we’ll both simply evaporate. We’ll just disappear into nothing and be removed from this unbearable discomfort without any further confrontation.
No such luck. Now we’re just two kill-faces slaughtering the air between us. The space is collateral damage. The time moves backwards, but not in that typical cinematic rewind you might expect. It’s more like a momentary bombardment of the past. Supposedly when you die you’re life flashes before your eyes in an instant. I guess that’s what this is. But it’s angrier. I can only see the times she was too drunk to be kind. Or the moments her lack of social graces became so apparent. I feel the hard steel pole of the pullout couch dig into my back the way it did those nights I couldn’t stand to sleep next to her. I taste the noxious flavor of her tongue like I did on the evenings she smoked too many cigarettes.
She’s the first to break, her anger transforming into misery in a matter of seconds. Her features soften so quickly and drastically, for a moment I almost suspect that someone is standing behind me, holding a picture of the saddest and most affecting event of her life. Then I realize with a creeping bit of shame that this just might be that moment. Say cheese; this is a still frame of your weakest point. This is rock bottom.
She balls uncontrollably, shoulders heaving as she buries her face in her hands. I’m torn. As I watch this microcosm of common tragedy, courtesy and empathy tell me I should do something to comfort her. But I want to stand my ground. This could easily be a trick—an attempt to elicit pity from a person who has been trapped by love for so many years. Because I should fall for it, shouldn’t I? I should see her hopeless tears, reach across the table, take her hands in mine and apologize for my hasty decision. I should think about standing beside her on apartment building rooftops, watching Fourth of July fireworks combat the stars over New York City. I should remember her falling asleep beside my hospital bed after the car accident, a drip of her warm drool leaking onto my hand, waking me softly to remind me that there is love in life and I’m so goddamn fortunate to have it.
Again, I look down at my plate as she sobs. I stare at the gleaming ring representing eternity, carefully hidden in the mangled heap of white potatoes. She was never one for conventions, particularly gender roles. I guess this is something that shouldn’t have surprised me. She’s been ready for a long time. At least she thinks so. I should have expected her to take the initiative. She’s impulsive and she wants what she wants when she wants it.
Her face is still buried in her hands; tears escape down her wrists and arms, forming small puddles where her elbows rest on the navy blue tablecloth. She’s an expected portrait of heartbreak. And it should be so easy for me to remember a time when I was the pathetic, convulsing mass of waterfalls and mucus. It should be so easy for me to be sitting on her side of the table, hanging on to some fading hope that nostalgia and circumstance will save a crumbling future that once seemed so certain.
I reach down and pick up the ring, using my napkin to chase the clinging potatoes from its flawless surface. As I stand, she pulls her face from her hands, her red, waterlogged eyes following me with anticipation so sadly expectant, I have to turn my head. I move towards her and place the ring on the table. Without stopping, I walk out of the kitchen and make my way to the front door, hearing one last outburst of unadulterated grief as I step into September’s waiting darkness, closing the door behind me.
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