Marie-Helene Bertino - Safe as Houses

I was down on my knees. One human being cannot withstand the force of that much kindness.

Do you know what I mean?

It had been three months since the breakup, and Emily was reclaiming relationship landmarks. She arranged to meet her date at what had been her and Marcel’s second favorite café. The forecast was rain. A pear-colored umbrella hung over the chair where Emily sat wearing a pear-colored skirt, drinking water, and watching two birds chase each other on a tree outside. It was a pursuit whose rules seemed to change at the end of each branch, when with short, pointed bleats the birds would halt and reverse, the chaser becoming the chased.

Next to her, a voice said, “Emily.”

She was still looking out the window, so it was to his reflection that she bid hello before turning to the actual man.

He held out a sleeve of daffodils. “These reminded me of you,” he said. “Cheerful.”

“Marcel.” She placed her nose amidst the yellow heads and breathed. “How considerate and thoughtful.” He was not wearing jeans. She looked at his pants where normally his cell phone perched like a glowing, dinging hip. “No phone?”

He pulled his suit jacket aside to reveal an unencumbered waistline. “I left it at work. Answering your phone at the table is classless.” He sat down. “Tell me about your day. Leave nothing out. Did you interview anyone who reminded you of a childhood memory you’d like to share?”

Emily was a writer for Clef , a magazine for classical music aficionados. She had spent the day learning how a cello is made. “Not unless I was a cello when I was young.”

Marcel’s smile cracked. “I don’t follow.”

“A joke,” she said.

“Fascinating.”

The waiter appeared. Marcel did not rush to order for himself but instead motioned to Emily. “What would you like, buttercup?”

She ordered quiche. He said what a great idea quiche was; then he ordered quiche.

Emily slid her hands over her head to smooth any stray hairs. “You’ve never called me buttercup.”

“Another realization: You are bright. Like a buttercup.” His smile opened. Not a grin, not biting. “I’ve decided to cut down my hours at the gallery. My job has made me careless and impatient. I would have been a better boyfriend had I considered you more. I looked in the mirror, buttercup, and I didn’t like what I saw. Do you think it’s possible to self-renovate? To self-correct?”

“Golly,” said Emily. “How I do.”

This Marcel did not put his hand between her legs. He did not glare at the family seated next to them, whose child had climbed onto the windowsill to yell, “Water!” and “Gladys!”

The quiche came. They ate the quiche. They made comments to each other about the quiche as they ate it.

He said, “Let’s have a farm of children.”

Emily’s mouth was full. “Load me up.”

“I’ll commute to the gallery. You’ll tend our brood. We’ll have Corgi Terriers. A farm of children and Corgis.”

Emily paused, midchew. “You said people today use their dogs like designer handbags.”

“I’ve been too judgmental about people and their dogs.”

Emily stabbed her quiche. “Food for thought, I guess.”

A woman passing their table said, “Emily?” It was Willa, a childhood friend. She beamed at Emily and then, noticing Marcel, blinked several times in shock. “What are the two of you doing here? Marcel, are you wearing a suit?”

Emily cleared her throat. “What brings you here?”

“Dropping off a table.”

“Another Willa gem, I’m sure,” said Marcel. “Someday you will teach me to restore furniture. Stripping an old bureau to uncover its original wood sounds like heaven.”

Willa looked confused. “You said it was glorified trash picking.”

Emily laughed. The child at the table next to them yelled, “Gladys!”

Willa said, “That kid must be driving you batty, Marcel.”

“On the contrary. Emily and I were discussing the farm of children we want to have.”

“Children?” said Willa.

Marcel said, “And Corgis.”

“Corgis?” Willa’s eyebrow jolted toward the ceiling. She turned to Emily. “Come see my table.”

“I don’t want to leave Marcel.”

“Buttercup. See the table.”

Emily followed her friend to the empty dining room in the back. When they were out of earshot, Willa turned and in a calm voice said, “Who the shit is that?”

“Marcel, of course.”

“I thought he defriended you!”

Emily winced.

“Marcel doesn’t wear suits,” Willa said.

“He looked in the mirror and he didn’t like what he saw.”

Willa’s mouth twisted as if it contained a piece of candy she didn’t trust. “Marcel doesn’t look in the mirror.”

“Pessimist,” Emily said. “Dour!”

“Butter,” Willa said, “cup?”

Emily faltered. “He’s more of an idea, I guess.”

“Emily! What are you doing? Having dinner with an idea?”

“I’m just eating quiche.”

Willa used Emily’s elbow to steer her to the door, where they could see Marcel hiding his face behind a napkin from the Gladys kid. He showed it, hid it, then showed it. The Gladys kid yelled, “Peekaboo!”

“That is not Marcel.” Willa’s voice was sad, as if it held a wounded bird. “Take it from someone in the business: some things can’t be refurbished.”

Emily cleared her throat. “Where is the table?”

“There is no table.”

They rejoined the Idea of Marcel. Emily sat down and Willa left.

“Everything copacetic, buttercup?”

Now the name seemed forced, childish. So did the flowers.

The quiche was gone and Emily did not want dessert, but he did not intuit her desire to leave. He ordered an after-dinner liqueur the color of turkey breast. As he sipped from it, she crossed her legs and recrossed them. “Where is the real Marcel tonight?”

He twisted his napkin. “Out and about?”

They sat for a moment in silence.

“He’s with another woman,” she said.

He nodded. The force of this upended her heart. It swiveled and came to rest.

Emily said, “She probably likes soccer more, and pubs.”

He did not seem to want to co-conspire. “Why are you with me if you still think about him?”

“Because I want to be with you. You.” Emily spoke with the aggression of someone who was no longer certain.

“I find talking about an ex during a date to be bad form.”

Emily thought of her first dinner with the real Marcel, here, at this table, in this café. He had told her about his previous girlfriend in such detail they both cried. He had been honest and vulnerable and ratty and present and fucked-up and attainable. He had told a joke about a gynecologist and pretended to use his fork as a headlamp.

The check came. The Idea of Marcel paid, and they sauntered to the street like first dates.

“I’ll walk you home,” he said. “I’ll follow you up the stairs to your immaculate and tasteful apartment. We’ll play jazz LPs and say our opinions about them. Let’s start now. John Coltrane versus Miles Davis: go.”

“Come off it,” she said. “You hate jazz.”

“Then I will call you tomorrow. I won’t be able to get through twenty-four hours without hearing your voice.”

It was a line that sounded better in her mind. “I feel like scrambled eggs,” she said.

He looked confused. “We just had quiche.”

“I mean my head feels like scrambled eggs. I’d like to go home, have a cup of tea.”

“Green tea with honey is my favorite,” he said.

“No,” she sighed. “It’s not.”

…

The rain fell so hard it made the leaves clap. Emily walked to where she knew he would be amidst the applause.