Eleven

Then one evening Jason insisted that she go home early, saying that he would close up. He thought she needed to take some time off; she'd been working every day for weeks without a day to herself. She kind of liked it that way. It helped keep the bad memories at bay, and if she was tired, she could count on getting at least a little sleep.

"Jason, it's okay," she said. "I can close up. I'm in no hurry to get home."

"Then why don't you go get something to eat or something? You don't have to go home, just get out of here for a few hours. I'll feed Sophie before I take off, I'll lock the money in the safe, and I'll lock the doors--you know I've done it before."

"I know . . ." She looked around at the store. It almost seemed like she'd been living there rather than at home. She seldom got there very early--Jason opened up most days--but she nearly always closed. She slipped out for a few minutes to grab something quick to eat, but ate at her desk, doing paperwork or reading. She had no social life whatsoever--not that she wanted one--she spent her days and evenings either working or going to or returning from work. Somehow, having a meal out did sound appealing.

"Well . . . okay." She gathered up her sweater and purse. "Are you sure you don't mind?" she asked Jason one more time.

"Absolutely! Have a nice dinner, and I'll see you in the morning."

Feeling like a kid let out of school early, she smiled at him and walked out the door, feeling lighter than she had in weeks. Where to go? Something nicer than fast food or the deli, but she wasn't really up for a "real" sit-down dinner someplace with tablecloths and candles . . .

There was a little restaurant in the next block where she'd eaten a few times. More of a bar, really--dark, with dark wooden tables and wooden floors. There were candles on the tables, she remembered, but definitely no tablecloths. She could eat alone there without feeling self-conscious, and it would be nice to sit down somewhere and let someone else wait on her for a change.

The restaurant was crowded, and there weren't any tables immediately available. The hostess offered a seat at the bar, but she'd never felt comfortable sitting at a bar, particularly alone, so she said she didn't mind waiting. She did, really; she hated waiting, but she'd stay awhile and see if something opened up. If not, she'd just go home and heat up a can of soup like she did every other night.

As she stood in the foyer, trying to look both alert and uninterested in anything going on around her, her eyes gradually became accustomed to the darkened room and she saw someone familiar in a booth in the back. It looked like Zach, the "angel," and as she recognized him, he raised a hand to beckon her over. Her first thought was dismay. She'd been at least somewhat happy to take the evening off and have a quiet dinner alone, but having to make small talk with a casual acquaintance, and someone that she suspected was at least slightly insane at that, wasn't the least bit appealing.

She went over her options. She could lie and say she was meeting someone, but if he didn't leave right away, he'd know she wasn't telling the truth. Although what did it matter? She didn't care what he thought . . . she couldn't easily lie, though, and she didn't have the nerve to just say she'd rather sit by herself. She could leave, but that would be cowardly, and she was hungry. She sighed. Oh well. The solitary dinner was not to be.

He stood as she approached the table. "It looks pretty crowded out there" he said. "Would you like to join me?"

"Sure. Thank you." She sat down at the chair he pulled out for her. "I hadn't seen you around for awhile. I thought maybe you'd left town."

"No, still here." He smiled. "I got the message that you didn't want to see me, so I stayed away."

She looked down at the table. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude . . ."

He rushed in: "No, no, it's okay. It was my fault. I just wanted to make you feel better. I can't stand it that you're so sad, but I shouldn't have butted in the way I did. I should have just . . . I don't know." He suddenly smiled up at her. "I have no idea what I should have done. I've been thinking and thinking about it, and I can't think of a way I could have handled it that wouldn't have scared you. So I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

He didn't seem nearly as crazy as he'd seemed that morning on the beach, and she found herself warming to him. Not so far that she believed a word of what he was saying, but he did seem nice.

A waiter came then, and asked if they wanted something to drink. Sarah asked for a glass of wine and, after a moment, so did Zach, saying, "I'll have the same" when the waiter turned to him. They sat there smiling at each other, unsure of what to say, until the wine came. White Zinfandel in stemmed glasses--Sarah held hers out to him in a toast, and they touched glasses, then drank. Something was happening here. She wasn't quite sure what it was, but she liked him. She'd worry about it tomorrow. She was sure she would worry about it tomorrow, but for now, she was going to relax and enjoy the evening.

He asked her about her work, about the shop and the people who worked there. She told a few stories about customers--the old man who believed he'd been in the Boer War, for one, and she told him about the quiet gay man who'd owned the store before her, who had sold the shop to her on a whim because he had fallen in love and the loved one was moving away. He couldn't bear to lose him, and said even if it didn't work out, he had to try. She got a little misty-eyed then, thinking about her own lost family, but hid it by drinking the last of her wine.

They ate fish, and mashed potatoes, and had several more glasses of wine, and somehow, through the long meal, what he did for a living never came up. He kept her talking about herself, kept asking her questions, and as unusual as it was to talk about herself, she enjoyed it. By the time the check came, and he had paid, she was feeling quite close to this almost-stranger, and hated to have the evening end.

They stood on the sidewalk, smiling at each other, she in her usual flat sandals and long dress with a sweater around her shoulders, and he in his usual--all in black. "Well," she said, holding out her hand. "Thank you for dinner. I really enjoyed it. Maybe we'll see each other again sometime."

She laughed. "I'd love to," she said, and as they moved on up the street looking for a quiet bar, she slipped her arm in his.

* * *

When she was seventeen, she'd gotten a tattoo. The Chinese ideogram for Grace, a small one, tattooed in black on the inside of her left wrist. She'd had it for so long now she seldom thought about it, but there had been a time when she'd been self-conscious about it. When she had worked in Chicago, she'd made a point to wear long sleeves and try not to let it show, but things were different here. A tattoo didn't mean that you were counter-culture. Or maybe it did, but it mattered less.

Her hand was lying palm up on the table, and he reached across and gently traced the tattoo with a fingertip, making her shiver.

"Grace?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Did it hurt?"

"Yes. Do you know they won't let you get drunk anymore when you get a tattoo?"

"Really?"

"Yes. It's true. They say it makes you bleed more."

"So . . . you probably shouldn't get one tonight?"

"One . . . ?"

"Tattoo."

"Oh." She laughed. "No, probably not. I'd probably bleed to death."

She looked at him and cocked her head to the side. "How come you're not drunk? You've had nearly as much as I have."

"It doesn't really affect me that much," he said. "Come on. I'll walk you home."

* * *

The night was dark and moonless, like the night they'd first met, and only the streetlights lit their way home. They walked along the sidewalk in silence, and when their fingertips touched, he took her hand, and she let him. When they reached her porch, he cupped her face briefly in his palm, and she thought for a sudden, wild moment that he was going to kiss her. He just smiled, and stepped away, though, and said, "Goodnight, Sarah. Sleep well." He turned and walked away, and she stood watching him until she couldn't see him anymore.

Dinah was waiting impatiently in the kitchen by the time Sarah unlocked the door and came inside, so Sarah fed her, then walked back to the bedroom, kicking off her shoes and shedding clothes as she went. She dropped into bed without even looking at the computer, but her last thought before she fell into a deep sleep was, "Oh, James, what have I done!?"

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© 2002 Willa G. Cline