Small Booth

-They were sitting, the two of them, at one of those small booths. The kind with the fake wood paneling and worn cushions, loose from the long years of people sitting and shifting. The kind you find in small mom and pop restaurants that try to pass themselves off as the kind of place you should visit in your Sunday’s best. It was a warm day in the unbelievably arid summer. They had been sitting for quite a while. Between them; several jokes, tidbits of what may pass as conversation and witticisms-the kinds of which they were both fairly prone to, had passed. Sitting there, across from her, he wore a smile. Not one of those smiles, the kind kids wear on their way to the zoo. He wore the kind of smile that’s there on a rainy day when you find yourself under a veranda escaping the water’s fall, and suddenly look up to find the eyes of a stranger on you, with a warm glow. It wasn’t pronounced, but it was there.
Maybe she noticed the smile, maybe she didn’t. At the moment she was busy twirling her fork in the fettuccine, red sauce splashing in her plate, splattering along the edges. She looked up at him and flashed a sudden smile. It surprised him. Reaching out for her blend of ice-tea and lemonade, she cleared her throat as if to speak. He thought she would. His attention perked up. He could feel his back straighten slightly. But she just drank, sucking at the straw. He resigned himself, disappointed at the continued silence, to watching the ice cubes sink to the bottom of the cup as she drained her beverage.
She’s left handed, so it was that as she stole from the ice cubes in her cup, her right hand rested on the table near the salt and pepper shakers and some hot sauce neither of them had ever heard of. He put down his fork. He could feel the sourdough from his meal expanding in his stomach. He glanced from the cup to her eyes, which were focused on the straw, to her hand. It was soft it was always soft. Without thinking his hand reached out, knocking one of the shakers over in the process. He didn’t even notice. It was the softness. He had wanted to feel her softness, her. She looked up at the spilled pepper and shook her head. Without putting her drink down, she reached over with her right hand, taking it from him and picked up the shaker, placing it as it was before he reached for her. She then returned her hand to that spot, near his, but not with his. His smile, by then, had become less noticeable. She shook her head and let out a puff of breath, placing the glass with the melting ice cubes on the table.
It was then she too noticed they were silent. Her eyes glanced up at the ceiling and quickly about the room, then settled on him. He returned to his fork, and picked at his salad, the side salad that came with the meal. It hadn’t been a long silence. Not the kind of silence old married couples tend to share as they dine out, but it felt long, it felt heavy, to him. To her, as she had just noticed it, it was simply there, however long it may have actually been there.
“So,” she said.
“Yeah,” he responded.
“Well, did I tell you?” she asked.
“No,” he said, “tell me what?”
“I got a call the other day.”
Putting down the fork, again, he looked at her quizzically, waiting.
“Greg called me,” she said.
“Greg?”
“An ex-boyfriend,” she said.
Now his back was straight, as he leaned in slightly. She pulled back her hand, her soft hand the one that had been resting near the peppershaker. Noticing,
“Oh.”
“Yeah, just out of the blue, he called.”
“Really,” he said.
“He just went straight into it, this line about how he thinks of me and he misses me,” she said.
“He misses you,” he echoed.
“Yeah, then he stopped himself and asked if I was with anyone. He apologized for just springing this one me, he apologized if I’m with anyone.”
On his face an awkward smile. He couldn’t help it. She noticed. She went on.
“I laughed. I mean, it’s like I told him. It shouldn’t matter if I’m with someone or not. Not that I miss him, but even if I was with some one,” she said, and his back sank. “Even if I was with someone, that doesn’t mean I can’t talk to ex-boyfriends. It shouldn’t bar my keeping old friends,” she said.
His mind scurried.
“No, no…it shouldn’t, I guess,” he said.
“Yeah, it shouldn’t,” she said, “even if I was with someone.”
His eyes fell to the table, to the scattered pepper on the table, to the label of that hot sauce, to the black bold letters: Prospector’s Companion. A silly name, he thought, then allowed his eyes to look up. He looked to the side of her, not at her.
“When, when was the last time you two had spoken?” he asked
“Like two years ago,” she said, “I hadn’t really thought of him. He was funny and…a little possessive?”
“Oh.”