L.A. Detwiler - The Widow Next Door

There is a shuffling of dishes as they heap their plates, passing around the casserole and laughing. She has a wide smile, and her head flies back at several moments in laughter. He’s a good storyteller; I can tell. He talks with his hands, just like her. Good storytellers, I think, should talk with their hands.

Plus, he makes eye contact with her when he’s telling a story. I always liked that. You need to look into someone’s eyes to really speak to them. It’s a skill so many ignore.

I watch the scene, a peaceful scene, as the moon rises over their house. They take their time, languishing over dinner. I’m glad to see they’re appreciating the meal, that they’re taking a moment to just slow down. They’re always rushing about, to and fro. I like that they’re focusing on each other, even if just for tonight.

After a while, he gets up from the table, putting his napkin down. He crosses the distance between them casually, in a couple of strides. Standing before her, he offers her his hand, and I smile at the gesture. I love an impromptu dance. More than that, I love a man who isn’t afraid to dance without a reason, to dance around the dining room table on a Wednesday evening.

She shakes her head as if she’s embarrassed, looking down at the plate in front of her.

I will her to change her mind. Don’t say no. Please don’t say no. You’ll regret it someday if you do. Someday, you’ll wish you had danced with him every chance you got. Someday, you’ll give anything to feel his hands on your waist, to have him twirling you around that table in a fit of laughter.

And for a moment, I think I’m losing my mind because, as if she’s heard my whispered prayer, she looks up from the table, turns her head and stares directly at me. I feel our eyes lock, my stomach flipping at the odd sensation pulsing through me as she stares. It’s like her eyes pierce through me, body and soul. I’m so uncomfortable, yet I can’t look away. After a long moment of her staring, no smile, her face steadfast, she glances back to the scene playing out.

With some coaxing, she eventually nods and takes his hand. She doesn’t say ‘no’ today. I exhale the breath I didn’t realise I was holding, shaking my head.

Did I imagine it? Certainly, she hadn’t been looking at me, had she?

I brush off the chill in my veins, focusing instead on the beautiful scene unfolding before me now. They lean in to each other, dancing by the candlelit table like two lovers who just uncovered the truth between them, his hand finding the waist of her satiny blue dress, her head resting on his shoulder.

I close my eyes, partially because I feel like this intimate moment should be between the two of them only, and partially because I’m drifting back to one of the many dances by the dining room table I had.

Our song plays in my head, that jazzy, big band song. He sings it to me in my ear, his hot breath sending chills down my spine.

* * *

‘ This is crazy,’ I said, giggling wildly.

‘This is perfect,’ he said.

‘I have dishes to do,’ I argued.

‘They can wait.’ He kissed my cheek, then my forehead and finally my lips. We kissed for a long time, the magic of the first wedded year dancing in our hearts.

The dishes didn’t get done that night, but it was okay. Instead of chores or responsibilities, we spent the night revelling in the beauty of our love, in our connection and in each other.

Then, our early dance morphs into another scene, a scene from later in our marriage.

‘Dance with me,’ he said, holding out his hand. He started humming the familiar song.

‘I can’t,’ I replied, icily, averting my gaze to the ground. Tears formed, burning the inner corners of my mascara-laden eyes.

‘Please, honey. Don’t do this. I love you. I know things are tough right now.’

‘Tough? You have no idea what tough is. There you are, pretending things are great, but in the meantime, I’m devastated. How can you even suggest we dance, like nothing’s happened? Like nothing’s changed?’

‘But, baby, it hasn’t. It doesn’t have to. Just dance with me. I love you. I’ve always loved you and only you.’

I looked up to see his pleading eyes this time. They sobered me, but the anger wouldn’t let go. I knew it was misplaced. I knew none of it was really his fault, and maybe a piece of me knew I was being slightly insane. He loved me; I knew this.

But it wasn’t enough. He just wasn’t enough then.

The hurt and denial intensified. It whirred within me. I tossed my linen napkin on the table, kicked the leg of the wooden heirloom and stormed to the kitchen.

‘I need to finish the dishes,’ I bellowed. And with that, the dance never happened, the song left unsung as the stark silence filled the growing void between us.

* * *

I open my eyes, tears flowing again. They’re still dancing, the moment not lost.

‘Dance with him always. Every time. Don’t let anything stop you,’ I whisper into the darkness, a silent prayer for the couple. If only there had been someone to warn me. If only I had danced when he asked.

But the ‘if onlys’ can’t change anything. All they do is make an old lady lose her mind a little more, make her lose sight of the good. I’ve got to let it go.

So, standing, I call for Amos as I trudge up the stairs to slip into my nightclothes and put another evening behind me. Another wedding anniversary is over, and I’ve survived. Sometimes, after all, survival is the best we can hope to achieve.

I’m taking a break from the window today. It doesn’t do an old woman any good to completely absorb herself in another life. My own days may not be exciting anymore, the sparkle of youth long gone, but I need to live them as best I can. I need to get up, move around, do things. I have no choice.

Well, I suppose there is always a choice. But right now, I think the only choice I can reasonably make is to keep pushing through, like I’ve done for so many years.

I decide, with a sigh, to do some cleaning today. The house isn’t very dirty, it’s true. When you live alone, there aren’t any people to pick up after, many dishes to wash, many beds to make, or much dirt to clean. There are no lawn clippings tracked in on his shoes to swipe up or coffee cups scattered about to tend to. Life alone is decidedly less messy, although I’m no longer certain that’s something to be happy about. In my younger days, I hated cleaning. I would yell at him for leaving his socks around, for leaving dirty plates on the end table. I was frustrated to no end that no matter what I did, the house was never clean.

Now, the house is too clean. Other than the dusky smell from age and time passing, other than the stale air from the doors and windows being shut, it’s pretty much the same as it’s been for years. Not a picture is moved, not a new decorative display has been added. What’s the point? In many ways, this draughty house is a mausoleum for the past, so little having been changed in so many decades.

Still, I feel like I need to do something that seems productive even if it really isn’t. I have nervous energy building, and I need to burn it somehow. I want to get rid of it before it builds up anymore.

I stumble towards the cleaning closet and stoop to get the duster. My back aches as I lean down, but I try to ignore it.

Amos meows at my feet as I head towards the living room, ready to crack every piece of dust there is, ready to swipe it all away.

Twenty minutes later, sweat beads on my forehead. I’ve managed to dust all the pictures and shelves on the left half of the room. I’m huffing a little, out of breath from the stretching and bending. It’s pathetic.