by Andrew Weston
“Why don’t you just tell them you don’t want to take the job,” said Robert.
“Why do you always make it sound so easy,” said Catherine.
“At least you’ll get out of doing that marketing presentation,” he said.
“It’s actually more complicated than that.” Catherine sighed.
“You’re crazy.” He sipped his water. ”You should stand up for yourself.”
“I told you,” she said. ”It isn’t that simple. They’re counting on me.”
“So let them count on you. That doesn’t mean they own your time,” he said.
“I know,” she said. ”I suppose I’m just nervous.”
“Nerves, huh?” he said.
“Yeah, nerves. Just don’t go calling me late for dinner,” she said.
“How could you be nervous? They just offered you a great new job.”
“You’ll get in touch with reality soon.” Her voice was crisp.
“You shouldn’t be so easy,” he said as the amber strands of hair fell across her forehead. ”If anything–they owe you one.”
She shifted her lazy eyes up hastily toward him. He looked cross. She knew he was thinking something. ”What,” she said.
“You just don’t give up when you own the ball,” he said frankly. “One of the worst things you can do in this life is not take and do what’s rightfully yours. When I was a boy I helped myself out with a paper route so I could finally buy my own things. And that was my start in this world. I learned responsibility. I learned patience. I did OK. That’s what you have to do here. Be responsible. Then your life will be easier. Things will fall into place. Then you won’t worry.” He looked at her. She thought he looked too smug for making a point. He didn’t sound serious.
“Mary needs me,” she said. “I promised. I know I thought I’d take this job in the end. But it’s different.”
“Just don’t do anything you’ll regret,” he said.
“And don’t think you’re on the same side as responsibility,” she snapped.
“Harsh–-No?” he asked glumly.
“You take it like you make it,” she said. He winced as if the words were sharp. ”Don’t make me sorry.”
“I’ll bite my tongue,” he said.
“Good,” she said back.
“Fine,” he said. He seemed done. And the ice in their glass. Beads of sweat ‘long the sides and it was a long glass.
“That’s the thing,” she said then. “’Cuz I’ve read all the books. All the guides and the pros, and instructions in manual. My mind, it’s made up. Anything ‘front the panel.” He then clasped her hands and the table was fine. And they smiled. Any smile. A warm glint in his eyes.
The waiter, he brought them the steak and some soup.
“Steaks are up,” said the waiter. And he smiled nice too.
“Thank you much,” then said Robert. “Fresh seafood I sense?”
“Shrimp/tomato,” he said setting porc’lain plate. “It’s the surf with the turf for a lunch that is great.”
And the waters were filled. And the ice it was fresh.
”Something else?” he said.
“No,” he said. “Bon appetit.”
The waiter then turned to the kitchen flat gate. And the linens and pearls filled the restaurant’s good still.
Robert said, “I play zen and a donut I keep.”
They were quiet. Then ate. No need for refill.
“A trouble?” he sighed.
”All for one, one for all. The soup is too hot. There’s no crux to the rue.”
“True,” he said with regard for the food on his plate. ”But savor and eat it in all good time. If you find it to dine we’ll also have wine.”
“Thanks and I say that I have to admit. You’re really all heart. I feel better,” she said.
“I’ll burn off all of this stuff at the gym.”
“You don’t give up trying,” she said. “Our life’s a parade.”
And the glint of the table, and the light tinge that said—what remains is unseen, and the liquor, the salt.
