Sylvia broke the adhesive strip with the same care she would give
an infant, or the Hummel figurine in her china cabinet. She shouldn’t have
taken it to heart when the new guy slammed her purchase on the meat counter without
a word. What could he know about tradition at his age?
She didn’t need him. As she lifted the pair of rib eyes off the
wrapping paper, she repeated the words that Mr. Jacobs usually delivered with a
wink. “Just like you and Bob. One petite and the other hardy.”
Still uncomfortable with the new bridge, she would prefer
something light and easier to chew, a tuna stuffed tomato or noodles with pesto
sauce maybe. But she had served soup and grilled cheese the night before. Bob
deserved a full meal tonight.
Not that he would throw a fit the way his brother, or James
next door did when served anything other than meat and potatoes. Bob kept his
temper in check at home, same as he did everywhere else. He complimented the
chef and thanked her, even when she fed him quiche or slapped cold cuts, a loaf
of store-bought bread, and a jar of pickles on the table in front of him and
called it dinner.
She made a habit of slapped-together meals lately, but he hadn’t
uttered the first complaint. A tear rolled to her chin and threatened to dive
into the marinade. She caught it with her shoulder as she turned the steaks in
the mixture.
How could that man still find pockets of sentiment in her
heart after all these years? She sniffed, covered the meat, placed it in the
refrigerator to soak, and washed her hands before ripping a paper towel off the
roll to wipe her eyes.
Light-headed and unsure whether to credit blood pressure,
blood sugar, or romance, she held onto the counter and waited for the room to
stop spinning. As her reflection came into focus in the window over the sink,
she smiled. Forget blood. Love was the only thing that took her breath and sent
her head reeling so far out of control.
Likewise, Bob’s love for her must be equally out of control to
see past the dry, silver mane, creases and bags around her eyes, and the
sagging bosom safeguarding her committed heart. She tossed the paper towel in the
garbage and stretched to full height, laughing when her breasts remained at her
waist. Tonight, for no reason other than gratitude, she would wear her holiday
dress for diner and shock the pants off her husband.
Secure with her returned equilibrium, Sylvia approached the
stove on youthful strides. The green beans looked as ready for Bob as she felt.
She lowered the flame under them and replaced the lid, wishing she could turn a
knob and reduce her desire to a simmer until he came in. Maybe she should alert
Dr. Koffman to stand by for Bob’s heart tonight.
Out of habit, on the way to the bedroom, her eyes dropped to
the lifeless watch she wore on her left wrist. The kids told her to replace the
battery or take it off. She knew his feelings would be hurt if she stopped wearing
her anniversary gift and, sooner or later, he would notice and take it to the
jeweler for repair. Reminding him would only reinforce his fear of losing his
memory. Correct time wasn’t that important.
Her heart quickened as she rummaged the closet to find the
dress. Why Bob liked the dowdy thing so much was still a mystery to her. She
suspected he only said that to make her feel good, same as she did him with the
blue suit. Until he told her different, she wasn’t wasting his hard-earned
money on anything new. She slipped the dress over her head, stepped into her
black pumps, and ran back to the kitchen to put the baking potatoes in the oven.
There wasn’t much she could do with her hair other than pin it
up at the neck. He would tell her it looked nice, and she would enjoy him
pulling the pins out later. Her hands weren’t steady enough for mascara, and
eye colors only got lost in the lines these days, so blush and lipstick
completed her primping, except the zipper. She would have to ask him for help
with that when he got there. Thinking of how he’d hold the fabric at her bottom
while he pulled the zipper up produced a few goose bumps.
Bob didn’t dance, possibly his only imperfection, and couldn’t
half hear these days so music was her choice. Elvis matched her mood
tonight – deep and sexy. She put the CD in the player, the steaks on the
counter-top grill, set the table, and waited. Just this once, she wanted to use
candles despite his paranoia about not seeing what he was eating but decided
against anything that would make this meal less than perfect for him.
She waited in the living room, same as she had when they were
dating, wringing the itch out of her hands that waited to touch him and prove
he wasn’t a dream, and blinking the sting from her anxious eyes. When
anticipation wouldn’t let her sit still any longer, she jumped off the couch
and rehearsed the dance he would probably never give in and dance with her no
matter how many years she practiced. Still, she wasn’t ready to give up hope.
Midway through the third song, a car door slammed out front.
She went empty waiting for the front door to open.
“It’s Rebecca,” her first-born called as she came through the
foyer.
Sylvia muted Elvis and greeted her daughter. Rebecca breezed
past and took the steaks off the grill then turned to zip her mother’s dress
before she opened the oven for the potatoes. “Dad won’t be here for dinner.”
“I know,” Sylvia said quickly. “Would you like his steak?”
Rebecca filled their plates and sat across from Sylvia at the
table. “Mother . . ."
“I know,” Sylvia said. “You don’t need to remind me.”
“I don’t? Are you sure?”
“Don’t spoil it, Rebecca. Anticipation is often the best
party. Leave me that much, please.”
