Page 38 of This Love
How did I know? Every day had been more or less the same as long as I’d been alive, mid-nineties and miserable.
Other people had so much to say, so many opinions to make. They got blustery and defensive and wanted you to agree with them.
I just wanted to learn what I needed to survive. I saw the envelopes that had arrived at the house. Water bill. Electric. Cell phones. I needed money to pay them. I had to work, and the camera was hard. Vinnie had finished all the orders that needed to go out. We’d slowed down before my wedding, so that was another saving grace.
I told Vinnie to take all the clients booked out and hire his own second shooter. He wanted me to try it, sure I would pick it up quickly, but it was too stressful. I didn’t want it. Not yet.
Big Harry’s was easy.
I wiped down the bar, not that it needed it. Happy hour hadn’t begun yet. Anyone who stopped in for lunch had already stumbled out, other than that one couple who sat across from each other, taking their time sharing a slice of lemon meringue pie.
I kept glancing in their direction because the quiet joy radiating from their table was brighter than the St. Pauli Girl sign blinking over their heads.
The old man held one of the woman’s hands clasped between both of his. His eyes sparkled as he looked at her. I could only see half of her face, but based on her forward lean and the flirting smile, she felt the same way about him.
She wore a simple gold band on her left hand, and I figured they’d been married forever. I wandered behind the bar and shoved a metal scoop into the ice trough to break up the big chunks, trying to guess their story. Did they meet when she was a girl of sixteen and he a young man about to head off to Vietnam? World War II?
I didn’t know my dates very well. In fact, I only knew those wars existed because Harry had watched a zillion documentaries during the week he stayed with me. The history of the world had been zapped from my memory right along with my own personal story. But I was learning.
The man lifted the woman’s hand to kiss her fingers. He must have known what got to her because her cheeks turned pink. What was that like? To have someone know you so well?
Did Tucker know me that well? Had we been like that couple?
A buzz zipped through my body at the thought of it. What was that? I pressed my hand to my belly, paying attention to the feeling. Was it making me sick?
I didn’t think so. It was thrilling, like when I first got in the gray car in the driveway that opened with one of the keys on my ring. My hands knew what to do when I sat in the seat. The engine chugged to life, and my fingers automatically closed around the knob on the stick next to my leg.
It took a minute to work out which direction to go, but my feet figured it out before my brain did, hitting the pedals to make the car move or stop. I only drove around the block once because my doctor said I’d lost my license for three months to make sure there wouldn’t be another seizure, but it was exciting and wild to have that hunk of metal under my control.
Thankfully, Big Harry’s wasn’t too far away to walk to.
But this buzz. It was like that one.
I wonder what about Tucker made me feel that way?
I turned away from the couple to the wall of bottles behind the bar and said his name, just to try it. “Tucker.”
My arms broke out in goosebumps, and I shivered.
Yeah, he was definitely someone my body knew.
Big Harry came out of his office with the bank bag. “I’m off to make a deposit,” he said. “You and Joe got it handled?”
Joseph was in the back flirting with the line cook. “We got it.”
He hesitated, and I already figured he was about to say something about Tucker.
But he shook his head and walked on out into the afternoon.
Good.
So many lectures. So much advice. I tried to sort it all out. I figured other people had experiences that helped them understand what was being said.
One thing I saw a lot was moms correcting their kids when they said something mean. They liked to tell Big Harry he was scary or that the food was gross.
The moms would say, “Be polite.”
My impulse was to smash a plate of food against their face. I had no idea where that feeling came from. I hadn’t seen a single person do that since I’d been alive. It couldn’t be common. But I always had to resist, like when those men tried to walk the check. I’d really wanted to lift that plate and smear gravy across their ugly mugs.
