Seeing Ellen Again

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Marlow met Ellen again after finding her on an online search.

In 2017, those still existed.

As you know, that was long, long ago.

He was heartbroken that Ellen left him for an itinerant house painter with a meagre bank account and big white pants. Heck, he would have been heartbroken if she'd left him for anybody, but perhaps he wouldn't have been so sad if she'd married a billionaire.

He drove all night to Dorset, Vermont, when he had found a listing for her there on Canada Street. He hoped it wasn't a long street, and he was happy to find out it wasn't.

“What are you doing here?” she said, when she exited her apartment at 8:49 AM.

“Well,” he said. “I was just in the neighborhood and thought I'd drop by.”

“Drop by? Are you stalking me?”

“No, no, of course not. Bobby The Ghostwriter said he saw you and that you'd broken up with that housepainter--”

“He was an artist.”

“Yeah, so was Hitler.”

“So what?”

“So what? Kill millions? So, what?”

“Ralph never killed anybody, except our relationship. Listen, I got to get to work. Why don't you call me later?”

“What's your number?”

“You seem so well informed, why don't you ask Bobby?”

“Ellen, please.”

“Okay. God.” She seemed exasperated. “Meet me for lunch at the bookstore cafe in Manchester.”

“When?”

“At 12:30.”

He waited, waited, and waited. At 12:52, she walked in, and looked surprised when she saw him at a long table in the back near the windows, as if she'd forgotten they had a date.

When she sat down, in a way that did not seem so permanent, as if she was ready to flee, he said, “Ellen, sweetie, please. Let's get back together.”

“After what I did to you? Dumped you like that?”

“I know. That was really harsh. Hurtful.”

“Sorry.”

“Thanks, Ellen. Thanks for saying that. What do you think?”

“I don't know. I've met some nice guys lately.”

“Ellen. I'm a nice guy. We can have children.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really. I'll get a job in a bank.”

“And wear a tie?”

“Yeah, just like before.”

He leaned over and kissed her. She permitted that. She had her usual waxy lip gloss on. He loved that. He loved her, and knew, somehow, that she still loved him. He hugged her, but she seemed upset.

“What's wrong?” he said.

“I'll have to tell my mother.”

“Go ahead.”

 

the end