Reed Coleman - Gun Church

“I felt it too. Fucking was always easy for us, but it’s different now. We aren’t who we used to be. I don’t want to hurt you anymore, Ames. I don’t want to hurt anyone anymore.”

“Then come to dinner with me tonight.”

“Just dinner, right?”

“Just dinner. Just talking,” she said.

“Just dinner. Okay. Where?”

“I don’t know. What would you like?”

“Chinese food. I haven’t had good Chinese food in seven years.”

“I know the perfect place. It’s on Lafayette in the Village. I’ll get the exact address and text it to you. Be there at eight.”

She hung up before I could have second thoughts. Too late. Second thoughts were all I seemed to be having lately.

It had been so long since I had good Chinese food that I forgot how good good could be. I mean, the only Chinese food in Brixton was in the frozen food aisle of the supermarket and it was about as Chinese as frozen pizza was Italian. But the restaurant Amy chose was more than just good. It wasn’t the standard Chinatown noodle shop or corner take-out, not by a long shot. No gloppy chicken chow mein on generic porcelain plates at The Peking Brasserie. The dining room was totally upscale, the service impeccable, with a menu consisting of gourmet variations on familiar dishes from many regional Chinese cuisines. In Brixton and its surrounding counties, regional cuisines were defined in terms of beef jerky and chewing tobacco.

Amy was already seated when I arrived and our hellos were so awkward and uncomfortable we might just as well have been on a blind date. We managed a fairly neutered embrace and chaste kiss. On the one hand, that made me want to run and not stop until I got back to Brixton and crawled into bed with Renee. No awkwardness or pretense with Renee. No need for apologies or penance. Just sex. On the other, I wanted to pull Amy to the red-carpeted floor and fuck her right there in the restaurant to show her how silly it was for her to hold my past against me. For chrissakes, the Kipster was as dead as Stan Petrovic. Then it struck me: maybe that was the problem. She was stupid for the Kipster. For me, maybe not so much. I could not help but wonder if Amy saw my transformation into an adult as a betrayal, as turning my back not only on who I used to be, but on who she had been, as a damning of our shared history. The waitress’s arrival prevented me from wondering aloud.

“Drinks?”

“I’ll have a Chardonnay,” Amy said, anger as plain on her face as her nose.

“Ginger ale and oolong tea for me.”

“Ginger ale?” Amy raised her eyebrows in mock surprise.

“I drink a little bit, but drinking was never the big issue for me, was it?”

“No, Kip, it was more cunts and coke.”

I nearly spit out my water. I’d heard her use the word before, but I was taken aback by the bitter edge in her voice.

“Come on, Ames, that was a long time ago.”

“Not for me,” she said, patting her hand on her chest over her heart. “In here it was yesterday.”

“Then what was last week all about: standing in the snow, resting your head on my shoulder? You think I’m such an ass that I couldn’t read your code? First thing you brought up was your failing marriage. You did everything but announce your intention to finally get a divorce and then there were the portraits. And Jesus, Amy, you couldn’t fuck me fast enough once you got the preliminaries out of the way.”

“I didn’t notice you resisting.”

“Because I wasn’t. Because I’ve missed you for ten years. Because I didn’t want to lose you in the first place.”

“You got a funny way of showing me you didn’t want to lose me, because you fucked just about every-”

“Your Chardonnay,” the waitress said, interrupting Amy’s rant. “And your ginger ale and tea, sir. Would you like to hear our specials this evening?”

I raised my index finger and gave a slight nod at Amy. “Just give us a minute.”

“Very good, sir. I’ll be back shortly.”

Amy and I pretended to study our menus and when the waitress returned, we listened to her description of the specials as if she were reciting the lost teachings of Christ. We ordered without much enthusiasm. In fact, what had been billed as an evening of just talk, and began as an evening of Amy airing old grievances, had become an evening of anything but talk. Amy seemed to have lost her zeal for upbraiding me and I was at a loss for exactly what to say. We waited for our food in uncomfortable quiet, the both of us looking anywhere but at each other.

At least when dinner was served, we had something to keep us occupied. Amy made polite conversation about things I forgot as soon as she said them. I was equally polite in my responses. Do you really think so? I see. Yes, he’s very talented . It was all so terribly stilted and soulless that I felt like we were trapped in cutting-room scenes from The Remains of the Day .

“For fuck’s sake, Ames, stab me or something, but I don’t think I can take much more of this civility.”

And for the first time in eleven years I heard Amy laugh. In a sense, to hear it brought me low, lower than her rage and disappointment ever could. Because in her laughter came the realization of what all that empty space in my life had been since I ran away from New York. It made me ache with guilt and regret-neither of which I was wont to do-because I had so wantonly and foolishly pissed away the only deeply loving relationship I’d ever had. Yet, at the same time it filled me with a strange joy to know I had made her laugh again, that I still could evoke in her something more than just rage. Her laughter encouraged me there might be enough left between us to build on, enough for me to hope.

“Wrong kind of restaurant,” Amy said, her laughter calming. “Writers have thick skins and it would be too much trouble to shove a chopstick through your heart.”

“At least you give me credit for having one.”

“Oh, I never doubted your heart. I still don’t. Your heart wasn’t the organ that caused our problems.”

“You think?”

“You’re such an ass, Kip Weiler.”

“True enough. So, Amy Anne Sanger-Weiler-Moreland, how would you like to date again?”

She didn’t answer right away, distracted by something over my right shoulder. Then she said, “Date? What are you going to do next, ask me to the prom?”

“It’s a thought. I do look good in a tuxedo. No, I don’t want to lose you again is all, and clearly there’s some stuff between us that we’ve got to deal with. I never want to feel the way it felt the other night and-” I cut myself off, noticing Amy’s eyes drifting away once again. “Amy!”

“Sorry. What were you saying?” But even as she asked, her eyes wandered.

“What are you staring at?”

Her eyes remained fixed over my right shoulder. “All through dinner, there was a woman standing at the window behind you. At first, I hardly noticed her, but she’s still there and I’m pretty sure she’s staring at us.”

I went cold inside and forced myself not to turn around. “Amy, do me a favor and stop looking at her, okay?”

“All right, sure.”

“Look right at me, please.”

Amy turned her head so that she locked her eyes on mine. “What’s going on, Kip?” she asked, a false smile on her lips.

“Is she twenty, twenty-one years old, athletic build, about five eight with long, straight blond hair, high cheekbones, and blue eyes?”

“Who is she?”

“Is that her, the woman I described?” My whisper was as cold as my blood.

“That’s her. She’s really quite beautiful. Who is she?”