By Holly Simpson
I huffed, looking at the somewhat familiar clock on the Italian diner’s wall-half past six. Sounds about right. Thankful for the dim lighting that hid the empty chair opposite mine, I wiped my palms on the crisp linen serviette. That’s where we used to sit.
Now, the bay window table and chairs were replaced by a chunky vintage jukebox that spewed loud Italian Jazz.
Despite the rain, the dinner rush couldn’t compete with the laughing couples that clambered in, filling the already cramped diner. Hiding in the comfort of my sweater, I stared down at my high-heeled feet. A printed pizza cartoon face looked up at me, the colouring sheet waiting for the sticky fingers of a child. I smiled.
The foreign sensation strained my lips, disappearing as quickly as it had come. It had been two years since he had died. Our son, Leo. Two years since my husband and I have had a date, and he’s not here.
Finally, James stepped through the diner door, slicking his chocolate curls back from his forehead like he used to do to Leo’s. I looked away and wondered if he avoided his own reflection too. I shouldn’t compare them. It’s not his fault.
His once pressed suit now damp and heavy exposed his muscular frame, and as he approached, his wide eyes narrowed.
“You’re here,” he said.
He smelt of cheap cologne—a poor attempt to hide the lingering smell of cigarettes that clung to him.
“I am.”
“Well, you could’ve at least given me some time to get here before you.” He flung his backpack under the table and gestured toward me. “To, you know, pull out your chair or something.”
I half rose from my seat. “You still can.”
Staring at me through furrowed brows, he snatched the menu and plopped into the chair opposite mine. “It doesn’t matter. I’m here now.”
I sat. Although the air was sticky and humid from the rain, I pulled the cuff of my sweater down a little further.
I took a mouthful of wine. “So, how was your day?”
“Fine.”
“Just fine?”
“Just fine.” His eyes lowered to the menu.
There was a long silence between us. I shifted in my seat to settle my stomach. I cleared my throat and sat up straight to reveal the lowcut top he had once complimented me on.
His beer, which I had ordered earlier with my wine, arrived. He nodded to the waiter then glanced at me before looking back down at the menu.
I slumped back into my seat and wrapped my sweater around my chest. “My day was fine too. Thanks for asking.”
Chin tilted down, he glanced at me through one raised brow and took a swig of beer.
I paused a moment. “Do you like the beer I got you?”
He lowered it to the table. “It’s shit.”
“Really?”
“It’s a bit flat.”
“It just arrived.”
“Well, it’s flat.”
“Lemme try it then.”
“You’ve got your wine,” he said.
I glanced to the bar and back, reaching for his glass, “but you said it tasted bad. I’ll take it back.”
“No, I said it was flat. It doesn’t really matter.”
I glared at him.
“You don’t even like beer,” he said.
“Maybe I do now.”
He rose his eyes to the wall behind me. “You don’t. You’ve never liked beer. Your favourite wine is shiraz, from Barossa Valley. We went on a holiday there…a long time ago.”
Even though he wasn’t looking at me, it was too much. I looked down at my lap.
I heard him move the schooner toward me.
The tall thin glass had the same piss-yellow hue of every beer. The stain of his lips on the opposite side. I lifted it to my lips. It was a little warm. “Delicious.”
A faint smirk crawled across his lips. “Better than your wine?”
I shrugged, heart pounding a little harder.
He pointed at my thin stemmed glass. “I’ll remember that next time and always order you a XXXX.”
I didn’t respond.
He waved a dismissive hand over my drink. “Wine’s too sweet for me.”
“There’s nothing wrong with wine.”
“I never said there was.”
I gestured to his beer, “why do you insist on drinking something so disgusting?” I shifted, crossing my arms, “maybe you could do with a little sweetening up.”
His stiffened posture and raised brow dared me.
I clenched my jaw. The pounding in my chest moved to my temples. I accepted the challenge. “You might like it better if you drunk it with me sometimes,” I said.
“Don’t make this about you,” he said in a low warning tone.
I tugged my sweater. “It’s not just about me.”
“It’s always about you.”
I opened my mouth to respond but thought better of it. My fingers fiddled with my ring, its presence on my finger as uncomfortably heavy as the lump that resettled in my gut.
He’s afraid of speaking to me. I inhaled. That’s not fair. Leo and I were the ones that got hurt in that fire. I was the one that, after months in the hospital with no flowers or faces. had to stay home donating children’s toys. My scarred forearms beneath the woven fabric burned as flames licked the sides of kitchen pans. The least he could do was talk to me.
Stranger’s voices competed with the jukebox, filling the dark restaurant with an ear-ringing concoction of laughter, silverware, and Mario Biondi.
I’ll give him something to talk about. I dragged my braid over my shoulder. “I got my hair done.”
James flagged down a server, arm raised.
I bobbled my head trying to catch his attention. “Do you like it? I know I’ve always been blonde, but I feel like the dark brown really suits me. Don’t you?”
James lowered his hand and slumped back into his chair.
“James, could you at least look at me?”
He sighed. “Look, can we just not do this right now?”
“Not do what?”
His eyes rolled. “I noticed your hair. It’s different. What do you want?”
“I thought you’d like it.”
“I do. It just hadn’t come up yet. I only just sat down, Elaine.”
The confusion on my face was response enough.
“Don’t try and make me feel bad,” he said.
My eyes narrowed. “You know that’s not what I’m doing.”
He scoffed and turned to face away from me. “It looks nice. I would have said something if you had given me the chance to notice.”
My open mouth shut at the presence of the waiter. James ordered for us both: lasagna for him. Salad for me. Asshole.
The waiter’s spew of apologies sounded over the smashing glass that fell to my feet. My chair scraped across the hardwood. Red liquid that once filled my glass now ran in staining streams down my white sweater.
I yanked down my sleeve to cover the scars that hissed in the cold air. James’ hands pressed a napkin to my chest. His unfamiliar touch burnt my skin. I pulled away, sending my chair toppling into the table behind us.
I turned to the mother now cradling her toddler, chair beside him.
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
“It’s alright,” she said to her son in that high-pitched baby voice that made me regret apologising, “it’s just a little bump isn’t it, Leo?”
I couldn’t hear anymore. In my ears was the howling of his name, like a burst of winter air through a boarded house. I turned to James. His unblinking eyes locked on the child. I pulled his arm, his skin foreign and warm under my fingertips.
James’ planted feet pulled my body back as I tugged his bicep. Shallow breathing filled the space between us. I adjusted my sweater.
“It’s not our Leo,” I said, mostly to myself.
James thrashed out of my grip, eyes peeling into an exaggerated stare, “you think I don’t know that?”
“I didn’t mean-”
“You think I don’t know who my own son is?”
I didn’t recognise the frantic eyes that darted around my face. I looked away.
James latched around my wrist, pulling me back to our table.
My whitened knuckles strained as I pried his fingers off me. “Let go.”
Aware of our presence in the restaurant he released me. “Go then.”
The pain in his eyes reflected my own. I lowered my voice, “why won’t you just talk to me?”
“For once, can it not be about you Elaine?”
Rolling thunder grazed my ribcage, nails bitting half crescent indentations deep into my slicked palms. This has nothing to do with me. He’s the one who stays out late. He’s the one who never comes home. He’s the one who won’t talk. Mocking laughs from nearby couples swarmed me as they shuffled around the jukebox.
“It’s not about me James, it’s about you. You’re the one who won’t talk. You’re the one who’s afraid,” the guttural voice that left my mouth tasted ashy.
His eyelids peeled back, exposing the whites of his eyes. “Afraid? Afraid? What am I so afraid of then?” Beats of silence fuelled his tone. “What am I afraid of?”
“Of me. Of life. Of living without Leo” my fingers raked through my hair. “I’m afraid too, but at least I’m honest with myself.”
“Bullshit- honest with yourself” His fingers quoted me. “You don’t know honesty.” He gestured to my sweater. “When was the last time you wore a short sleeve?”
Instinctively I wrapped the sweater tighter. Clanking plates screamed over the red-faced chef that barked orders at the cooks. I could feel James’ eyes burning through me, his words fuelling the storm that raged beneath my chest. I still couldn’t look.
“What do you want to hear?” he said, “you want to hear that I avoid you? You want to hear that I can’t look at you without thinking of that day?” His hands slammed on the table scaring the silverware.
I jumped, my eyes unblinking on my ring. “You weren’t even there, James.”
“Exactly. I wasn’t there.” His voice silenced the restaurant. “I wasn’t there to protect him. Protect you.”
I looked up. “Feeling guilty won’t bring him back.”
I looked at my chest before I could see his reaction. My body felt foreign. I didn’t know what to do with my hands as they picked at the stain now seeping into the fabric of my clothes. The weight of his stare begged for my eyes. I couldn’t face it. Face him.
I didn’t look up as his footsteps trailed across the restaurant, sending the diner door rattling as he left.
I sat for a long while. Alone. Unmoving. The empty chair opposite me for quiet company. My words hung thick and matted in the air, twisting into an ugly knot of past conversations. I can’t believe I said that.
Glowing candlelight cut through the blistering darkness of the restaurant. The waiter placed a cake in front of me. I squinted, and a cursive “Happy Anniversary” stared back.
I closed my eyes and inhaled. The smell of sweet chocolate and lingering cologne filled my nose. I paused. The warmth of the candles heated my cheeks like the sun that rose over Barossa Valley when he knelt before me. I opened my eyes and looked into my ring. A shadow of a smile teased my lips.
I peeled the wine-soaked sweater from my arms and shoved it into my bag. My healing scars bathed in fresh air. In one breath, the flame was gone. I stood and followed James outside.
