Ordinary Good

I've been a real shitheel. I'll be the first to admit it. Well, I'm probably not the first, but anyway.

Work hasn't even been going bad. Business at the restaurant is good. I'm not exactly where I want to be, just a line cook, but I know that won't last long. I know I'll work my way up, and not in a cocky way either. I'm good at what I do. I can be better. I don't want to open up my own place or anything like that, I don't want that pressure. Just to make good food for decent people.

My friends are well. Harriet's in remission, thank the good lord. Brian and Andrea, they're expecting their first baby. Carolyn and I didn't have any negative words to each other about it, and I was even expecting to. Nothing about why we're not trying or even if we're ever going to try. We were just both genuinely happy to hear their news. No fooling.

I like where we live. I like this town. There are things to do here, there are good schools should we ever need to worry about it. My taxes are higher than I'd like, but nothing's perfect. We all have to pitch in. That's something I'm willing to do.

So I don't know what it is. But I've been sour. Mean even. Callous and abrupt. I start thinking about things, about how they could be different. I go for long walks after my shift. No drinking, no sleeping around, no dark thoughts, none of that stuff. It's just time away from her, for no reason, and it's getting longer. My pants look old, the dog's making too much noise. I'm looking at the same wallpaper but I don't want to go. And I feel like I should want to break out of it. But I'm a guy who likes a bad mood, I always have, and I worry I always will.

And I get quiet sometimes. No questions, short answers. There's that saying, where you hear a thing about yourself enough you start thinking it's real? I wonder if she felt like nothing.

Then I get home from work, late. Another walk, another sit in my car in the garage. I know Carolyn and fully expect her to be in bed asleep, or pretending. So I walk in, and there's a faint glow coming from the living room, a warm saxophone, too. I follow the light and music down the hall. Candles. I see candles, short and long and dripping, on the coffee table and the bookshelves and mantle. Cannonball on the speakers. I see an indoor picnic: blanket on the floor, champagne and glasses, cheese, grapes, dark chocolate, pretzel crisps, local preserves. Carolyn is standing. I wonder how long she's been here like this. If she's figured out my habits. If I walk in late the same time every night. Everything looks like it was set out a moment ago. And she's standing there with this look in her eye. Not a look that says she forgives me, but a look that doesn't even know what's to be forgiven. A look that's strong.

I run to her, I almost knock her onto the couch. I hold her and hold her and hold her so tightly I almost kill her. I cry. I open a door hidden behind a curtain. I feel good. I kiss her neck, her cheek, her mouth, her little earlobe. She asks me if I'm hungry. I say yeah, yes, I could eat.