by Paul Cwalina
I went in and didn’t feel like waiting for the elevator. I had too much adrenaline flowing.
I opened the door to the staircase and sprinted up the stairs. She wants me to come back. This is a test.
I got to her floor and opened the door. I turned the corner and stopped. Down the hallway, I saw a man standing outside Sarah’s door. He was about our age, dressed in jeans, t-shirt and a dress shirt, unbuttoned, like a construction worker. He looked familiar. I must have seen him before, but I couldn’t place his name or face. I stood there frozen.
Her door opened, she came out and put her arms around his neck and they kissed.
Then they went into her apartment and the door closed behind them.
I stood there frozen. My palms started sweating and my insides felt like Jello. Half of me
wanted to charge down the hall and break down her door and the other half wanted to jump out the hallway window. I leaned against the wall, trying to get my head around everything that was happening.
I walked back down the stairs and out to my car. My confusion was turning into rage. I picked up my phone and dialed Sarah’s cell. It rang six times and went to voice mail. I hung up and dialed again. Same thing. On my third attempt, it only rang once and went to voice mail. She must have hit ‘ignore’. This time I left a message, but it was more of a string of obscenities than a coherent message.
That was brilliant.
Again, I started my car and pulled out of the parking lot. This time, I just drove straight home, not remembering a single detail of the trip.
Chapter Five
Work was practically impossible for the next few weeks and months. I thought about Sarah almost exclusively. People were talking in meetings and I never heard a single word they said. I was shaking hands across the state not remembering a single name. I gave empty speeches that were devoid of conviction and I couldn’t even guarantee they were even coherent.
The only thing I remember clearly during that time was that the incident at the prison was over. The investigation cleared the guard and it was over. I enjoyed some relief over hearing that news, but only for a brief amount of time best measured in seconds. Even that bit of good news wasn’t enough to take away the sting of losing Sarah.
Otherwise, I was completely focused on losing Sarah. At night, I would try to convince myself that she was just trying to make me jealous; she was sending me a message that I needed to spend more time with her. Message received loud and clear. Now, just break it off with this guy and let’s get on with our lives.
That wasn’t the case, though. She was ignoring my calls. She was taking different routes to work to avoid running into me. She made it known through friends gently admonishing me not to bother her. It truly was over. When I finally came to grips with that, I just kept thinking about the betrayal. How long had she been seeing him behind my back? How many times did she say that she loved me, while she was thinking of him? How did they meet?
There were still some nights, though, that I sat in the parking lot of her apartment building; nights that I followed them. Why I did that and tortured myself like that, I have no idea. Four or five months had passed since Sarah left me. I did my best to maintain my composure and not let it affect me, but I’m sure my best wasn’t enough.
I walked into my office one morning and Diane walked in right behind me and closed the door.
“This is your lucky day,” she said.
“Oh, really? And why is that?”
“Because you are going on a date tonight.”
“What?”
“You heard me. I have someone absolutely perfect for you. I’ve been waiting for the right time and that time has arrived.”
“Sorry, Diane. I know you mean well, but no,” I said, not happy at all that she would do this to me.
“I’m the one who’s sorry here because you don’t have a choice. You’re going.”
“Diane, seriously…thank you, but…”
“Shut up. You are about to meet the best woman this city has to offer at the perfect time in her life…and yours. You should be thanking me.”
Diane and I had been friends since college. She knew me as a frat boy and at my worst, so she was never impressed with my success. Many times I caught her rolling her eyes in those formal ceremonies when people called me the ‘honorable’ so and so. She knew she could talk freely in front of me and about me.
There was no winning this one. One of Diane’s best qualities as my assistant - having the tenacity of a bulldog - was coming back to bite me on this one. “You’re going to regret this,” I said.
“I don’t think so. In fact, some day you’re going to thank me and realize tonight was the best night of your life.”
“So, do I have to call her or what?”
“Nope. I already have the two of set up for dinner at The Mystic. Six-thirty. You’re meeting her there.”
“And what if I have plans?”
“I control your calendar, goof. I know you don’t have anything going on tonight,” she shot back.
“Fine. This is a mistake, Diane. I’m warning you.”
“No, it’s not,” she said and made her way to the door. “Chelsea,” she said.
“What?”
“Her name is Chelsea. You didn’t even ask me her name,” she said, frustrated
“Sorry. See? Told you this is a mistake.”
“Just step up your game, alright?”
“Step up my game? Stop watching so much ESPN.”
“I look forward to hearing all about it tomorrow morning.”
“Wait, does she know who I am?” I asked, not even aware of how arrogant that
sounded.
“Yes, and she agreed to meet you, anyway.”
“Go.”
“You may want to bring the self-admiration down a notch or two tonight, okay?”
“Go.”
I felt it in my bones that this was a going to be a big mistake. I’m sure this Chelsea was a nice person, but it just didn’t feel right. I should be with Sarah.
The day was like all the others had been for the past four months. Mental errors while I was thinking about Sarah. Hours go by every day for which I couldn’t give an accurate accounting. Today was no exception. Suddenly, it was 5:35pm and I had to get home to get ready to meet Diane’s friend.
Sarah and I had been together nearly five years, so it had been that long since a first date and probably nearly that long since a real date. We quickly became very comfortable with each other, so we moved to dinner at home and downloaded movies early in the relationship.
I didn’t get home until 6:00, so I didn’t have time to ponder much about how to prepare, except opting for a shave rather than not. My wardrobe was kind of at the extremes: suits and ties on one end and t-shirts and basketball shorts on the other. In between there was a whole lot of nothing. I’d never seen anyone having dinner at The Mystic wearing basketball shorts, so I went with a suit.
I arrived at the restaurant at 6:25 and sat down at the table. I looked around the room and at the bar to see if there was a woman looking like she was waiting for someone, but I didn’t notice any. The hostess knew who I was, so I wasn’t worried about any potential confusion.
At 6:35, I noticed the hostess walking toward my table with a woman behind her. As they approached, I noticed the tips of this woman’s hair were blue and I looked around to see if there was a blue light giving her hair that tinted glow. No such luck. Her brunette hair was cut in a bob style, about shoulder length, and the last inch of it all around was blue. My date had blue hair. Mental note: kill Diane.
I stood up and managed a smile as they approached. Chelsea didn’t wait for the hostess to introduce us and put forth her hand and said, “You must be the mayor.”
I took her hand. “And you must be Chelsea. Very nice to meet you.” I turned toward the hostess, “Maria, thank you so much.”
Chelsea sat down in the booth and placed her purse next to her. In the better lightin
g of the booth, my suspicions were confirmed. The tips of my date’s hair were, indeed, blue.
The window at our table provided a view of the street, which still glistened from the day’s rain. A fairly steady stream of people walked by, but the cars were few so it was relatively quiet.
“I’m so sorry I’m late. I wish I had a good excuse. I just don’t,” she said.
“That’s quite alright. Just don’t let it happen again,” I joked.
“Awfully cocky of you already thinking there’s going to be a next time, mister,” she shot back.
Impressive, but her hair is still partially blue.
I chuckled. “Touche’ ”
“Oooh, and he speaks French,” she said, playfully.
“I’ve exhausted my entire French vocabulary with that last sentence, I assure you.”
Chelsea laughed, “Okay. Duly noted.”
The waitress arrived, introduced herself as Megan and handed menus to us. “What can I get you two to drink?”
“Can I just have water with lemon, please?” Chelsea asked.
“Of course. And you, sir?”
“Lemonade, please,” I quickly replied.
“We only have pink lemonade. Is that okay?”
I sighed. “Megan, have you ever seen a pink lemon?”
Megan laughed, “No, sir.”
“Then why would anyone think pink lemonade is a good idea?” I said, only half-jokingly. She continued to chuckle, but from the look on her face she wasn’t sure how she should respond. “Now, you’ve forced me to drink heavily. Bring me whatever lager you have on tap, okay?” I turned to Chelsea, “Do you mind?”
She seemed surprised by the question. “Oh...no...not at all.”
“I’ll bring those right out for you folks,” Megan said.
“Thank you, Megan,” I said.
Chelsea seized on the opportunity to bust me on the pink lemonade exchange. “OK, so mental note: he is insecure about his manhood,” she joked.
“Oh, stop it. I just don’t get pink lemonade. Just make lemonade from lemons. What’s the big deal?”
“You’re a traditionalist, I guess.”
“Are you a psychiatrist? That’s three quick psychoanalysis sessions on me in less than two minutes.”
She laughed. “Not even close. I’m much closer to being the patient than the psychiatrist…no, I’m not. Sorry, didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
Chelsea and I got down to the business of getting to know each other while we looked over the menus.
“So, what do you do?” I asked her.
“I’m a curator at the Schmidt Museum of Art.”
Ah, art museum…The hair makes a little more sense now.
“Oh, very nice. How long have you been there?”
“Just started my fifth year.”
“Congratulations. You must enjoy the work.”
“If I didn’t have to pay my electric bill, I’d work for free.”
“I love hearing that. It’s so important to enjoy what you do for a living.”
“It definitely is. Do you enjoy what you do?”
“It is my calling, I’m convinced,” I said, proudly.
“Good for you.” She paused before continuing, “Now, you’re really the mayor of the city,
right?”
I wasn’t sure if she was joking or not. “Guilty as charged.”
“You may not want to use that phrase from what I hear about politicians.”
I chuckled. “Sadly, you’re right. I’m trying to be a different kind of politician, I guess. At least, I hope.”
“Well, then, good for you. Do you live in the city?”
Do I live in the city?!? Is she serious? How is it possible that someone doesn’t know something that basic?
“Um, yeah…that’s kind of a pre-requisite for the job.”
“Oh, is that how it works? I didn’t realize that.”
For the love of all that is sacred and pure, what am I doing here with this flake?
“Yes, you need to be a resident of the town, city, school district, state, etcetera that you want to lead.”
“Oh, okay. Sorry. Politics has never been my thing.”
“Do you vote?”
“I voted once when I turned eighteen. On my birthday, my father made me sign up to vote in exchange for tuition money. I haven’t voted since.”
Check, please
“May I ask why you don’t vote?”
“I don’t know. I watch the news and these politicians never seem to do anything right. They’re all just yelling at each other and calling each other names. They’re all just a bunch of buttheads, if you ask me.”
Thank you
“Well, I would hope not all of us are buttheads,” I said sternly but not harshly.
She realized what she implied and put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, I’m sorry.” Then she tapped my hand and continued, “Not you. I’m sure you’re wonderful.”
Yeah
We both just concentrated on the menu for a while. I knew what I wanted, but I continued to look at the menu to avoid more uncomfortable conversation. Diane will pay for this.
The waitress came back for our order. “Are you two ready to order?”
“I believe we are, Megan. Chelsea?”
“You guys have the best seafood, so I’m going to have the scallops.”
“Very good. And you sir?”
“The New York strip, please. Rare. I want to hear it ‘moo’ when I cut it, okay?” Out of
the corner of my eye, I watched for Chelsea’s reaction. She recoiled a bit. Sarah would have had the steak, too.
I grabbed Chelsea’s menu, placed it on top of mine and handed them to the waitress.
“Thank you, Megan.”
The time between our placing of our order and the arrival of dinner seemed like a painful eternity. I really had no interest in talking to this non-Sarah person. I tried to be polite, but all the topics of conversation that Sarah and I breezed through were just closed roads for Chelsea and me. And the detours were awkward.
When our dinners finally arrived, Chelsea and I continued talking about our backgrounds and all the usual stuff. Nothing really deep, though, since we didn’t have much in common.
There came a lull in the conversation. I turned my head and stared out the window. I shouldn’t be here. I should be with Sarah. She’s out there somewhere and I should be with her. Not here. This woman is keeping me from being with Sarah.
Every car that passed by may have been carrying Sarah somewhere. People walked past the window and I looked for Sarah in each group of them. I lost track of time and how long I was staring out the window, but it was long enough for Chelsea to notice.