Solo

Ten years on, perfumed stationary fell as his wife packed his suitcase. In breathless script his new fling wrote, “See you in Chicago.”

Furious, she left the note, as witness, on rumpled cotton sheets that smelled of morning sex, the quick kind that happens between waking, stripping bare, and showering. She placed his empty bag on the pillow. Stepping over soiled clothing piled on the floor where he dropped it, she slammed the door.

She left for the park, where she pushed their daughter’s swing like a mantra. On the way home from the daycare drop, she shopped for groceries she didn’t need and stayed clear until he collected his baggage.

Pas de Deux: Adagio 3

Her apartment, a one room walk-up covered in flowered wallpaper, occupied a Victorian attic in the Haight section of San Francisco. Propped against a Laura Ashley covered double bed, they ate cherries and drank white wine. He breathed her almond scent, nosing the curve of her neck. Stretching, she touched his face, rough with evening stubble, soft with desire. They cuddled, warm at first and then wet. Wrapped in Peruvian blankets, they talked about childhood, and raising children, and work, and the sensual feeling of skin on skin. When they married, it was as if they had never been apart.

Pas de Deux: Adagio 2

That first day, and most days after, they met to ride the MUNI home after work. Without planning or calling beforehand, they stepped to the curb at quarter past five in a kind of rhythm they found hard to explain. Theirs was a love that rose like yeasted dough. Water and flour and biga that became silky smooth with kneading. His fingers, feather light as a sigh, brushed her hair aside, the copper strands falling in waves against his wrist.

She smiled, leaning closer.

He followed her between dented seats, along the sidewalk and up a dingy flight of stairs.

Pas de Deux: Adagio

It was warm in an autumn way. He treated her to lunch. Carrying take-out bags, they found a quiet spot where golden red leaves, the color of her hair, decorated the ground. They bit into egg salad sandwiches and broke a peanut butter cookie, sharing the pieces. He swept the shoulder of her blouse, sending dried leaves into a spiral. She thanked him, a hint of embarrassment in her voice. He wrapped his jacket around her. She filled the awkward silence, busy fingers turning a napkin into an origami bird while he nodded, both waiting for the other to start.

Pas de Deux: Entrée

They approached each other on a slippery concrete walk. Their eyes met. Though she was usually unflappable, she missed a step. He was sometimes oblivious, but noticed, reaching for her elbow, sliding his hand to the meat of her tricep, steadying her wobbling frame. She blushed, a warm pink starting low and blooming high. In that moment of contact, it seemed to her that he would never let her down. Even as her legs splayed and her arms stood akimbo in the earthquake of feminism that cracked glass ceilings and rocked couples to a new generation’s music, she trusted him.

Disaster Averted

“What if I said yes?” Kat propped herself on the breakfast counter.

Grant slipped a spatula under the edge of her omelet and flipped. “To onions? Too late.”

“No, to marriage.” She pushed dark bedhead curls from her furrowed brow.

“Oh, that. Co-ordinate benefits. Joint checking. Widow’s pension if you get lucky and I don’t.” He stopped in mid lift. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“The couple in Paris. That stupid game. I know you now.”

A burnt smell. “Don’t distract me.” Grant slid the eggs to a cherry red plate. He pivoted. “Then, kiss me, Kate.”

Proposal # Six

board center chalk chalkboard — Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

For Kat’s birthday, Grant made a board game. He scoured thrift shops, looking for tokens. The game squares read: darkest secret, childhood fear, favorite sexual position. They played together. Sometimes with close friends. She liked the heart token. He liked the stallion. The Identity Forest, a square decorated with tall oaks surrounded by question marks, asked: “Do you know yourself?” The answer was in the True Confessions stack. One card said, “I’ll marry Grant.” If a friend read it, they had a laugh. But he proposed each time she landed on that square, in case Kat drew the desired answer.

Proposals # Three, Four and Five

person taking photo of eiffel tower — Photo by Lukas Hartmann on Pexels.com

Grant was determined. He thought, “Third time’s a charm.” But it wasn’t. They vacationed in Paris. He proposed at the Eiffel Tower, in the small park where they took selfies sitting in front of tulips. He knelt. She said, “That’s so retro.”

The next day at Versailles, he brought the box out and showed it to an elderly American couple for approval. They endorsed his proposal. Kat smiled and said, “It hasn’t been long enough. He asked me just yesterday.” On the RER to CDG, she said no again, but agreed to give up her lease when they got home.

Proposal # 2

box close up display engagement rings — Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

After they’d been together for exactly a year, Grant made dinner on a
Saturday while Kat was working. When she got home, he drew a warm
bath for her and lathered her up and wrapped her in an oversized
towel. He said he wanted to work up an appetite.
The white box was sitting next to Kat’s spoon. She used her fork to
secure her steak, cutting small pieces from it. She sipped red wine
while he drank still water. No comment on the ring. She cleared the
table, washed the dishes. Grant slipped behind her. She said, “No
wedding.”

Hiatus

chocolate with milted chocolate on white ceramic plate — Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

She sublet her apartment and set her toothbrush next to his. That lasted for a week. She bought a blue ceramic bathroom set. “To match your eyes,” she told him. There were other changes. She left her clothes strewn on the floor after showering. She made fresh brownies and left them on the kitchen table. Her smell clung to his clothes all the time instead of just occasionally. He breathed it in when he was patrolling the streets, responding to domestic disputes and bringing homeless people into shelters. The smell of her made some things easier. So did the chocolate.

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