Be Here Now -- NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Competition Round 2

He sat on the edge of a planter outside the sushi restaurant. This was where they came on their first date. She’d never had sushi before. She was late then, too. He probably should have picked her up at home instead of meeting her downtown.

“I’ve missed you,” he said, getting up.

“You’ve been gone.” She looked tired.

“Work.” He gave her a kiss. “There’s a wait, do you mind.” This was where he asked her to marry him. A public place, in case she said no.

“Productive trip?” she asked.

He appreciated that she knew how frustrating a new software launch can be. She smelled of cinnamon and fresh baked bread.

He nodded. This was where she told him she was pregnant. She needn’t have worried. The business was just getting started. It was a little tough, but Michael was a beautiful baby. He was glad it worked out so that he could be there for the birth.

 “Is it too cold to wait out here?” he asked, putting his arm around her.

She shook her head and leaned against him. She fit perfectly, her warmth spreading into him. This was where they came when his father died. He still missed his father.

The hostess opened the door and called their name.

He took her shawl and held her seat for her. She didn’t wear coats, not even on the coldest nights.

And she liked spiders. She took as many pictures of the garden spiders as she did the flowers. And she was always worried about them when the weather turned cold. He liked that about her.

“I love the lights,” she said. Hundreds, maybe thousands of tiny lights hung throughout the restaurant glimmering around the wait staff and customers alike. They made her smile.

The first time Michael OD’d, they came here. Their beautiful, brilliant son. How could he have been so unhappy? What could they do?

Treatment seemed to help them all. He made sure he was home for every family session.

He stayed home a whole week for his own gall bladder surgery. She teased him about his risk factors, the four F’s – Fair, Fat, Forty, and Fertile -- saying she liked the last one best of all.

Then when she was in treatment, she lost her hair and wore scarves. Bright Indian looking ones. Elegant black ones with gold or silver threads wound through. He stayed home for those six weeks and for the two months after. They came here often then. The lights would glitter on her scarves and she would laugh at his travel tales of woe.

He cut short his trip to London, when Michael went to jail. He didn’t know if she was well enough to stand the stress alone. They came here after their first visit.

Now Michael was dead. Had been for almost six months. He couldn’t stand being at home. He worked and traveled and worked almost the whole time. He couldn’t stand her sorrow. He couldn’t stand his own.

He wondered how it is that some places -- some simple, quiet places are the safest places to be?

The waitress poured tea and said she would be back to take their order.

He looked at her, his beautiful wife. He just looked. Somewhere along the line, she’d grown old. He had, too. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Maybe he’d been gone too much. Maybe she’d learned she didn’t need him. Maybe she didn’t want him.

“Why are we here tonight?” She asked.

“I need to know if we’re going to be alright.”

She pushed her tea away and took her keys out of her purse. The tiny airplane on the key fob gleamed in the restaurant’s low light. He’d given her that trinket after his first business trip.

“Let’s go home,” she said. “I’ll have a glass of wine, you have a scotch, and we’ll go to bed.”