A Forty Year Kiss

12

One night, later that week, she woke from a dream, unsure what was real and what wasn’t.

In the dream, the past many weeks had been part of an elaborate reality television show. Charlie, the Charlie she’d fallen back in love with, was actually an actor. But the real Charlie’s story was purchased by producers to create a plausible backdrop for a new romance. They paid real people for their memories, their insights into former lovers. Then, actors were cast. As for the real Charlie, he was still a drunk, still down in New Mexico. He drank at a tavern near the railroad tracks where the sounds of freight cars groaning, clanking, and laboring were a steady soundtrack.

She woke, suddenly, aware now of the cameras that had been watching them the whole time, just out of sight, microphones hidden. She was surrounded by actors, she saw now, everyone playing their parts, facilitating this fresh new storyline. She couldn’t see the audience, but she could practically hear all the snickers and jeers. How foolish of her to think any of this was real.

There was no way to fall back asleep now. She tossed and turned all morning until it was time to get up and make breakfast. At seven o’clock, she called his house. She knew it was stupid, but she had to.

I need to ask you a question, she said. And you’re going to think I’m crazy, but…I have to.

Can I have a sip of coffee first? he asked.

What kind of wedding cake did we have?

Uh. Coconut.

She thought for a moment.

Anything else? he asked after a moment.

We buried something in our yard. That place we rented. What did we bury?

You mean my mom’s parakeet? he laughed. You know she actually died thinking he escaped his cage. Speaking of graves. She used to talk about that. Wondered if he’d ever fly back home. I used to say to her, Oh, sure, Mom. Yeah, I bet he just migrated back to Costa Rica or Belize or whatever. He’s with his family now. But I’m sure he’ll be back.

Okay. One last thing then.

Look, I have no idea what the last four digits of your social security number are. Okay? Sorry. I never knew. I barely remember my own.

I’m allergic to one thing. What is it?

Viv?

Yes.

Are you okay? It’s, uh, a little early for trivia.

I know. But, just—humor me, please. What am I allergic to?

Mangos. Which never bothered me because until we were married, I didn’t even know what a mango was.

Okay, she sighed, I guess it’s okay then. You’re real enough.

Real?

You can go back to bed.

Vivian?

I’m sorry. Never mind.

I still blame you for that parakeet, she heard him saying, even as she hung up the phone, and leaned against the counter, shaking her head at herself.