Just dinner

This short story is snapshot of the duality of marital infidelity.

He hadn’t asked her to meet him for dinner in a long time, and she had no idea what made tonight special.  What if he knows, she thought, running her hands over her still-damp hair as she walked in the restaurant. 

He didn’t even notice her arrival, his head bent to study the menu.  Or if he noticed, he didn’t look up anyway.

Only one other table was still occupied, a young couple lingering over espressos and a shared plate of tira misu, their eyes locked.

Mark didn’t take his eyes off the menu until Paula stood right in front of him.  Then he stood and pulled out her chair.  “That didn’t take long,” he said.

“Not much traffic this late,” she said, glancing around the room.  “What time do they close?  Are we keeping them open?”

“No, it’s fine,” he said.  Paula looked toward the kitchen – the chef was talking to the owner, both of whom were watching them, slightly put out.  He’s so oblivious, she thought.

“I’m sorry I was late getting out of the store,” he said. The waitress’s approach cut him off.  She rattled through the specials – a black farfalle with salmon and zucchini and a spaghettini with clams and tomatoes.

“Anything to drink?” she asked.  Paula quickly scanned the wine by the glass list.  “A glass of the merlot,” she said, avoiding his eyes.  His disapproval was palpable, but she wanted the alcohol to help her relax, get through this dinner.  “You and your wine,” he said.

No comment, she thought, no comment.  But her silence was a challenge to him.  “Do you have to have it at every dinner?” he said.

“I like the taste – I like it with food,” she said.  “There’s nothing wrong with it.”

He could tell it wasn’t her first drink of the night.  He could smell the wine on her when she walked in.

“What did you do this evening?” he asked.  He pictured her sitting on their couch, drinking alone, watching television.

Her heart started to beat fast, a flush creeping up her neck.  She was prepared for this, eager even to give her rehearsed story.  “I met Gwen for a drink,” she said.  “After work.  It was her and a group of her co-workers.”  Her mind grasped for more details to make it seem real.  “At Angelo’s.  It was a real scene, so crowded the waitresses could barely make it to the tables.”

He hated when she said things like “it was a real scene.”  Who did she think she was, a 20-year-old party girl instead of a 30-something married woman?

The waitress set the glass of wine down in front of Paula.  “Are you ready to order?” she asked.

“I haven’t even looked,” she said apologetically, glancing at where the chef and the owner still stood, talking.

“It is just that the kitchen is going to close,” the waitress said.

“OK,” Mark said, almost dismissively.  “She’ll look right now.”  The waitress left.  “You’d think they want the business,” he said in a low voice.  He was already sorry he had suggested this dinner. 

Things hadn’t been good between them for months and months, but this morning, he woke up with her in his arms, her body pressed against his, warm with sleep.  He lay there, scarcely wanting to move, holding her and remembering when every morning began that way.

She woke up an hour later, and he was gone.  On the kitchen table sat a note that read simply, “Let’s meet for dinner tonight.”

But now that she was awake, he thought cynically, it was the same old story.

“I’m sure they do want the business,” Paula answered.  “Just not 15 minutes before closing.”  She skimmed the menu.  She wasn’t hungry.  The taste of cold pizza, champagne and someone else’s kisses was still in her mouth.  She reached for the wine and took a big drink.

The waitress was still hovering nearby.  Paula caught her eye and nodded. 

“I’ll have the caprese salad,” she said.

“To start?” the waitress asked.

“No, as the entrée,” she answered.

Mark sighed.  “Is that all you are getting?  If you have been drinking you should eat.”

“I did eat before, Mark.  That’s why I’m not so hungry.”

Mark turned to the waitress.  “I’ll have the lamb shank,” he said.  “And the green salad to start.  And bring her an order of the lamb shank as well.”

The waitress looked at him, and then at Paula uncertainly.

“I’m not that hungry, Mark.  Just the salad, please,” she said.

He ignored her.  “OK, then bring an order of the spaghetti and meat sauce for her,” he said to the waitress.

The waitress fidgeted, uncomfortable.  Embarrassed, Paula told her that would be fine.  Then she turned to Mark and said, “I hope you’re hungry, because I’m not eating that spaghetti.”

Now she was mad at him, he thought.  He was just trying to look out for her – an instinct that was the last remnant of what had been a passionate, all-consuming love.  And now she wouldn’t even let him take care of her.

“Why did you eat when you knew we were having dinner?” he said.

“I couldn’t wait until 9:45 to eat,” she said.  “I thought we were going to meet earlier.”

They sat in silence for a while. The salads came.  Paula still couldn’t figure out why he asked her to meet him here.

“Why were you so late leaving?” It was a question she hadn’t asked in a long time.  He launched into a story about a personnel issue he was dealing with, a new employee whom he suspected of taking merchandise.  Mark hated to manage people, the inevitable conflicts making him anxious and miserable.

Paula concentrated on playing the role of supportive wife.  “Did you catch him doing it?” she asked.

“Not quite.  One of the assistant managers saw him bringing some books into the back room and asked him what he was doing.  He had some lame excuse – like he need to check the prices or something – so the guy told him to do it up front, and then came and told me what happened.”

The busboy came out of the back and started bringing in the tables and chairs from the sidewalk, stacking them against the windows that lined the front.

 “Did you talk to him about it?” Paula asked.

“Yeah, that’s what I was doing tonight.  I told him that I heard what happened and asked him if he had anything he wanted to tell me.  He said he didn’t and I said that if he did later, he should come talk to me.”

The waitress arrived with two plates, steam rising in her face.  She put the lamb shank down in front of Mark, and then looked at Paula questioningly.  “Spaghetti and meat sauce?”

Paula moved her salad plate to the side. 

“Mark, I’ve already eaten.” Her voice was tight.

“Just try it,” he said.

“I’m not hungry,” she said.

“I know,” he said.

He cut into his lamb shank.  She took another swallow of wine.

She started to say something, and then stopped.

“Let’s just have a nice dinner,” he said.

Paula picked up her fork and twirled it in the spaghetti.

“A nice dinner,” she repeated, lifting the fork to her mouth.  Suddenly, she was hungry.

 

Reviews

[Magnolia Belle]

You've captured Mark's personality - ignorant, blissfully or not - of people and situations around him. If it's not according to his plan, then it doesn't interest him - not even his wife's life.

If they stay together, he'll probably never even notice the affair Paula's having.

Good writing. Good characterization and good, though frustrating, dialog.