October 10 - In those days...

In those days, they had gone to the same café on the corner of their street every Sunday for brunch. Inevitably, she would order the pecan-crusted French toast, and he would order the Eggs Benedict. They would bring along the thick stack of the Sunday Times, purchased at the deli next door, and dissect the innocuous sections until they were left only with those that mattered. Inevitably, he would begin with the Business section, she with Sports; she was always entering the various betting pools in her office, and depending upon the season, would avidly dissect the latest news on basketball, football, or hockey. In the summers, they sat outside on the patio, where the mosaic-tile tabletops matched smartly with the blue metal of the chairs, and the hot summer sunshine would soak into their backs while they sipped at iced coffees white with cream. When the seasons turned to colder climes, they retreated indoors behind the broad panes of glass, so they could still observe the world strolling by down the sidewalks, but were protected from the elements by the layer of glass. They wrapped their fingers about cups of hot cocoa and smiled up at one another every once in a while to indicate that a bit of whipped cream had attached itself to upper lip or tip of nose.

They would walk their dog together both before and after work, shivering but wrapping each other in scarves with laughter as though they were birthday packages, in the early hours before dawn stained the horizon, or – still laughing – during the hour just after work, strolling past the happy hour set. Bruno, their spunky black Labrador, loved to poke his head into the patio gates of the outdoor restaurants in the summertime, disturbing those Happy Hour-goers, whining as though he, too, wanted a sip of the merriment, but no one ever minded. They saw the smiling couple and the eagerly nuzzling dog, and they forgot annoyance for a moment and patted Bruno’s head, and the couple would move on.

They would cook almost every night, shopping once a week at the green market at Union Square, even in winter, eating seasonally; root vegetables for stews in December, tart apples just fallen from the tree in the fall, spears of white asparagus and plump, multi-colored tomatoes in August. They would handle the items, carefully selecting the best ones; they knew the farmers by name, weighed out the earthy-smelling produce in little brown paper bags and then walked home arm in arm imagining what they might cook that night with their bounty. Almost inevitably, the cooking process would grow messy, and a béchamel sauce or a whipped cream dessert or a drizzle of honey would put other things on their minds, and they would forget about cooking for a while.

This was the rhythm to their seasons, each melting or thawing or hardening into the next, but always greeted with the tingle of excitement that accompanies the new, and yet the open arms extended to an old friend.

It was winter in their very café, Bruno asleep at home, because it was too cold to tie him to the street meter outside, while they sipped at hot chocolate, when she hit him with. Or, he was sipping at hot chocolate, as was their habit. She had ordered a latte. A latte? he had asked. She looked at him as though his words were peculiar. A person can want new things, she explained. She seemed to stew over this idea as she wrapped her fingers around the blue ceramic mug, as if reading some sort of oracle in the way the steamed milk patterns swirled.

I am leaving, she announced suddenly, breaking ten years of hot cocoa sipping and laughter with that one sentence.

You are running errands, he asked desperately. Leaving only the café, only that. Leaving only for the moment, not for a life.

She shook her head. You don’t understand. I am leaving.

She put her unfinished latte down on the counter and he watched her walk out, waiting for her to trip, but she didn’t, muffled by her overcoat so he didn’t even recognize the body underneath.

She was packed and moved out by the next afternoon.

He still lived in the same neighborhood, but he never went to that café anymore. Never even walked past. Bruno had gone with her, and he had never bothered to get another pet, except one misguided attempt with a newt. When he found the green lizard belly up after leaving town for one weekend, he threw the terrarium into the garbage bin on the corner and washed his hands of the pet business.

It was an October evening, and he made his way to the bar one block away. He liked this particular bar because the lighting was dim, but still bright enough to read by, the clientele populous enough so he could blend in and disappear, but not so crowded as to disturb. He didn’t think of her every day anymore – it had been long enough that he was down to thinking of her once a month. Maybe twice if it was a change of season and the green market grocers hawked the season’s new fare. He was pleased to note that he had even lost track of how long it had been. Seven years? Eight years? But tonight, on his way out the door, he caught sight of himself in the big stand mirror, muffled in his overcoat as she had been muffled in hers the day she walked away. He shuddered, not for the early autumn air. He always brought along a book to read – he was working his way through the 100 Great Classics, at the moment, after which he intended to start reading obscure, contemporary authors, but he found himself looking up constantly from the pages, the words swimming before his eyes.

Am I drunk? he wondered. No, he knew that wasn’t the case, because he had only had one glass of Barbara d’Asti, and normally it took at least three.

She had fallen in love with another man; that was what burned. He had read the wedding announcement in the Sunday Times yesterday. He held his hand low over the candle on the bartop, lowering his palm as much as he could stand. The thought of her married to another man, in love with another man, made him burn inside, so he held his hand low over the candle so the flesh could feel what his heart couldn’t handle.

How did I end up at this bar alone? he wondered. He looked down at the page again, but the nonsensical words stared back up.

Another, sir? asked the bartender, who knew him well.

What? No. He pushed his stool back. I’m not feeling so well. Just the bill please. We’ll change things up tonight.

Very good, sir.