4
So, she thought, he hasn’t stopped drinking. He was just putting on a show. He must be nervous. She took him in now, more thoroughly. The strong hands he held in his lap, like he was harboring a rabbit that might try to escape. The thick thighs. The mostly flat stomach. He accepted the glass of beer and seemed to focus on bringing it to his lips. He took a long, slow swallow, and then set the beer back down on the bar. He seemed to be collecting himself, focusing on his breathing. She just watched him. Felt nervous for him.
Charlie turned to her now, and his eyes were a soft medley of love and defeat. She could see it, as plainly as if he held a placard announcing his intentions. He was a different man from the one she had known. Instantly she felt sorrow for him, because she knew the same love and defeat. Knew all the accumulated years and decades, all the disappointments, dead ends, and wrong turns. She felt her throat constrict with sympathy and something more than sympathy. Some emotion she hadn’t predicted, and it was like love.
I still dream about you, he said.
She felt her breath stolen away. She had not anticipated this from him. This unexpected poetry. This sweet candor.
I dream about the mornings when we were lying in bed. All those mornings. I can still see the curtains in our bedroom, the white lace, moving with the wind. I can hear the radio playing classical music. I looked it up, and the song I always think of is Clair de Lune. I’ve been dreaming about you for years, Viv. And sometimes they aren’t even dreams exactly. They’re—you’re just—you’re the last thing I think about before I fall asleep. When I’m lying in bed and I close my eyes. I think about you. I think about those mornings. I dream about kissing you. Can I? Can I kiss you?
She said not a thing, frozen in her delight, her surprise, and he moved ever so gently towards her, with the looming grace of a cloud approaching a coastline. Then he kissed her, as gently as she could ever remember being kissed. And she kissed him back, exhaling slightly through her nostrils.
This was not the kiss of a twenty-year-old man, or a thirty-year-old man. This was the kiss of a teenage boy. A teenage boy wary of girls, all but afraid of girls. This was the kiss of a man unsure if he might ever kiss again. His lips were wet with the sparkle of the beer, and the taste of mint, and when he pressed his lips against hers with slightly more pressure, she inhaled him, and pressed her own lips tight against his, and felt her tongue searching for his. They kissed like this for what felt like minutes, and she did not care one iota whether anyone was watching them. Her heart was beating so forcefully she felt a little lightheaded. Like she was a lemon-yellow balloon on a string that had, only moments ago, been clutched in a child’s hand but was suddenly released and now sent giddily soaring towards the afternoon sun. She felt extravagant. She felt desired. His right hand was resting on her left thigh, and she wanted much more of that, but also wanted them to move slowly. So much time had passed. Was there a hurry? Or were there years ahead for them to explore? Was this really happening? The rain was still falling outside, still streaking the glass.
Oh, he sighed. I missed that. I missed kissing you. You remember how much fun we used to have together? How in love we were?
She looked at his hand on her thigh, so delighted she could not say a thing. So surprised by this evening that she felt it was surreal. Her body was thrumming like a guitar string strummed hard.
I do, he continued. I remember all the little trips we took. To La Crosse. Eagle River. We used to just drive to the Mississippi without any plan. Do you remember that? Just drive north or south. Find a little motel. Or that camper we had.
God, I love you, he said. I’m sorry if it’s too soon to say that, but I feel it and, well, there it is. I don’t want to hide anything. I want you to know how I feel in case, I don’t know, there isn’t a tomorrow.
You used to always have chocolate for me, she said, laughing softly, remembering those times, how young they were. How free they were. She realized with a start that she hadn’t felt truly free in decades; always there were some kind of responsibilities that kept her in place, that held her, like gravity. Suddenly, she longed for those days of chocolate and back roads.
I did, he said, clearly surprised that she remembered, then, it seemed, downcast, almost despairing that he had no hidden Toblerone in his pocket.
You would forget our anniversary. But you would remember chocolate. How much I loved chocolate.
His eyes were aimed at her thighs, where both his hands now rested. Thank you, again, for meeting me tonight. I didn’t know if I would ever see you again.
She sipped her wine, aware that her hands were also trembling. Just a little. She was drinking faster than he was now. But she could not seem to help herself. She was so happy.
I’m going to a wedding this weekend, he said.
Oh.
Yeah, he continued. I got some new shoes in Minneapolis. A pair of navy-blue trousers. A nice checkered shirt. Pink. I like wearing pink. It throws people off. You should come with me. We could stay in a fancy hotel. Not like the places we used to stay at. Something much nicer. Hey, he said, touching her shoulder gently, a place with chocolates on the pillowcases. Would you like that? Would you like to come with me?
She smiled and trusted he could see on her face both the weariness and the hope, a hope she had meant to tamp down, the hope that he would not break her heart again. A hope that meant maybe she would give him a chance to prove who he was now. And maybe he’d see something else too. That she was poor. Actually poor. That she had never in her entire life stayed at such a hotel. That in her entire life, no one had ever pampered her, or made her life easier.
And she felt a sadness then, knowing he had contributed to her difficulty, that their marriage had not been an easy one, especially for her. She was embarrassed to admit to herself that perhaps she had always wanted someone to pamper her. Not every moment, mind you, or every hour, or even every day. But occasionally. Someone to lift the weight off her shoulders. Or share the weight. Or to absolve the weight altogether and to say it was okay for her to close her eyes and take a nap. That dinner was taken care of. That she didn’t have to worry about every single dollar, every single dime.
Can I kiss you again?
She returned to the moment, to their seats there at the bar. To the sound of rain lashing parked cars.
Yes, she said softly.
Yes, what? Yes, to the hotel? Yes, to the kiss?
The kiss.
And so they kissed again, and this time his hand pressed patiently, warmly past her ear, to the back of her head, beneath her red hair, where he held her and pressed their lips together. Her life had been so ho-hum, for so many years, so vacant of surprise, this kiss felt like waking up in a rose garden just after a rain. It felt like a dream, like another woman’s life. Maybe she wasn’t quite trapped after all, no longer destined for the life she had been living. Maybe there was another path, lined with hotels and travel and dinners, a life with this man who made her skin feel splashed with benevolent fire.
When he pulled away from her, she was aware that her tongue felt ticklish, that her whole body was vibrating with desire. She wanted to kiss him again, and so she did—leaned right towards him and took his face in both of her hands. She felt the grit of his whiskers and the soft furring on the lobes of his ears; he had always had nicely shaped ears, like two beautifully soft old snails. She felt the hard hidden dunes of his cheekbones and the sudden give of his considerable nose. The bar was tilting and whirling very pleasantly, and outside a police car raced by, its blue and red lights suddenly breaking her reverie. It seemed that the rain had slowed.
God, I missed kissing you, he said.
Come on, she said, taking her purse and jacket. Let’s go.
But, he said, I don’t want to go anywhere. I want to stay here, with you. He sounded afraid.
Please, she said, reaching for his hand. I need a breath of fresh air.
Let’s at least finish our drinks, he said. Look—it’s still raining out there.
So, they sat quietly. The bar was empty now. Just them and the bartender, watching a baseball game on the television. He took a chance and reached out for her hand, squeezed it. He turned towards the window and the rain had abated, mostly.
Come on, she said. It’ll be good. To stretch our legs a little bit.