Davis stroked his tie. Lorraine recognized the gesture of self-satisfaction. This was different from the knot-adjusting gesture, which she translated as a personal battening of the hatches.
“Of course," Lorraine said. She set her fork and knife on her plate, fork tines down, knife next to the fork, both pointing to the center of the plate. Much of her food remained. She looked at it with some regret. She’d found the chipotle glazed salmon tasty, the mashed garlic infused potatoes delightful, the crisp sautéed snow peas exceptionally sweet.
Davis continued eating his prime rib. For a man of his age he was an intrepid diner. “You’d be quite an attractive woman, really," he said. “I’ve been wanting to tell you for a while." His thick prime rib sat in a lake of pink juice. Lorraine did not eat red meat.
He smiled. The candle in the center of the table flickered in an otherwise imperceptible current of air. A stem of phalaenopsis orchids and a few strands of bear grass trembled in a bud vase.
In the ladies room Lorraine peered at her reflection in the mirror. Davis could be a wonderful conversationalist; too bad he’d turned to this topic. She leaned forward to examine her face, frowning. She checked her figure, turning right and left. She poked her finger into her ribs; her flesh was soft, she thought, not flabby. If the waiter hadn’t removed her plate, she might have just one more bite or so of that salmon.
Davis, himself, had gone slack in the manner of aging athletes. Lorraine closed her eyes and thought about his long body lying next to hers, how she’d wakened, and noticed his loosening skin. Flaccid was the word that came to her mind when she thought of him.
So she understood his desire for a lithe woman, one on whom gravity’s pull was not so evident. She squeezed her upper arm. Soft. She sighed, thinking of dessert. It’s a pity, she thought, that crème caramel was out of fashion. She thought about a mound of flan, sitting in a pool of dark syrup, with a hint of bitterness to set off the sweet.
Davis ordered coffee and crème brulee. Lorraine considered the delight of breaking through the crisp sugar crust and sinking her spoon into the custard; the contrast in her mouth between the crunch of the sugar and the cream. Davis looked at her meaningfully. She knew she was expected to order the mixed berries, a crystal dish filled with perfect looking strawberries and raspberries. But the berries were out of season, and though beautiful to the eye were bound to be nearly flavorless. “Just coffee," she said. Davis rewarded her with a smile and another stroke of his tie. The waiter was just turning away, when she added, “No, please. I’ll have the crème brulee as well."
She smiled at Davis, said in her softest voice, “Life has so few pleasures these days." She watched him flush. She took a sip of her water. The waiter had refilled her glass while she was gone. The ice shimmered in the candlelight. “I know you understand, darling." She put an ever-so-slight emphasis on “you."
She placed her hand on the table to see if he would take it. Instead he refolded his napkin, and checked his watch. She knew he understood perfectly. Had she been wearing a tie, she would have run her fingers down its entire length. She savored the feeling. They were sharing, after all, their just desserts.
Miriam N. Kotzin writes poetry and fiction. Her work has appeared in various publications, including Boulevard, for which she is a contributing editor, Southern Humanities Review, Carve, Three Candles, Flashquake, Fiction Warehouse, Pindeldyboz, and Thieves Jargon. In 2004 her poetry received two nominations for a Pushcart Prize. She also writes fiction collaboratively with Bill Turner. She teaches creative writing and literature at Drexel University where she directs the Certificate Program in Writing and Publishing. For additional information, visit her website: htttp://www.miriamnkotzin.com.
|
|
