Confiserie

What are the odds of sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic? One idiot doesn’t wait to text his mother and rear-ends a muscle car. I was supposed to make a christening, but these car horns surround me instead. I scramble to answer my buzzy phone before someone rear-ends me. My lane shifts forward three inches when I answer. 

“Elena, traffic is sluggish at best right now”, I explain, “Does shrimp fettuccine work for you?” 

“If it is served on a square plate with arugula, save it”, Elena replies. 

She is uptight but square plates do not bother her when I pay. On her mother's dime, we dine at a spot where clams come $2 a pound and all shrimp is self-peeled. If I remind Elena of this fact, I win a slap in the face but I win. If I- this clown did not cut in front of me. 

“Watch where you drive, kumquat”, I shout.

“You sound like you are occupied, Eliot”, she sighs. 

I pull over after this open exit and check my bumper. Half of it scrapes the asphalt now. This is fantastic. 

Thanks a lot, genius, I mutter. I cross my arms tight, prepared to lay into this fool when the driver emerges from her car. 

My eyes bug out as fifth-grade national spelling bee finalist Pan Morris steps out the driver's seat. My arms unfold and relax. This is gonna suck. 

“I'm sorry about- you're the judge who destroyed my spelling bee stardom”, she growls. 

Pan marches toward me with balled fists. I expect a throat punch, a stern talk, or both. 

“C-o-n-f-i-s-e-r-i-e”, she barks, “Origin of the word is French and it is a candy shop or confectionery.”

I lower my head. It sounds like a stern talk. I scratch my leg. Gotta clip my talons sometime after this. I hope Elena isn't pissed off in whatever restaurant we visit.

“I apologize for telling you it was incorrect”, I respond. 

Pan tugs at my suit and scans me head to toe. 

“Invite me wherever you're going and we're even”, she exclaims. 

“I missed my nephew's christening but I'm headed to lunch”, I whisper. 

Pan exhales, drums on my shoulders, and heads to her car. Good luck explaining this one, Eliot. 

“I enjoy apology lunches. They're fraught with some juicy drama”, she remarks, straddling her seat. 

I jog to the car and hear “by the way, your voice sounds tremulous, t-r-e-m-u-l-o-u-s.”

We arrive at the seafood restaurant and the sign isn't slanted for a change. I have context when Elena arrives alone. Of course, she stares incredulously at my unexpected guest. Today I did not need traffic. 

“I have a face to match the kumquat my husband yelled about on the road”, Elena grimaces with an outstretched hand. 

“And I have an invitation from your husband who crushed my spelling bee dreams to dust”, Pan grins and shakes Elena's hand. 

Elena cocks her head at me.

“That is interesting”, she frowns. 

I scratch my leg behind them. This is an ideal time to disappear. D-i-s-a- it's been a while since I needed to spell anything. 

We slide into a booth and the waiter arrives in pleasant spirits. Speaking of spirits, I would not mind a few. 

“Welcome to Cherie's. Can I start you all with an appetizer?” 

Elena clears her throat. 

“I will have the calamari and an extra knife”, she glowers at me. 

“I’ll have the juicy salmon bites”, Pan smirks. 

The waiter pivots to me and my voice dries up. I wipe my clammy hands against the suit and avoid the waiter's eyes. Now Elena glowers at Pan. 

“I will take the calamari as well”, I croak. 

Once the waiter leaves, I proceed to scratch my leg. 

“Why do you scratch your leg?”, Pan asks. 

“He scratches his birthmark at anxious times”, Elena grunts.

If I imagine this is all fantasy, perhaps I can vanish into thin air on a unicorn. 

“What was the word you misspelled, Miss Kumquat?”, Elena crosses her arms and clenches her fists. 

“My name is Pan and your husband claimed I misspelled a word”, Pan remarks without eye contact. 

Elena clenches her teeth and rolls her eyes. You can show up any time now, unicorn. 

“Pray tell, what was this infamous word?”, she snarls.

The appetizers arrive and no one aside thanks the waiter except me. 

“Are you ready to order?”, the waiter beams.

“Everyone will have shrimp fettuccine”, Elena declares through gritted teeth. 

The waiter smiles and scurries off. My eyebrows furrow as I am concerned Elena and Pan will explode. Here's to the hope my guess is inaccurate. 

“The word was c-o-n-f-i-s-e-r-i-e, confiserie”, Pan curls her lip. 

“The French candy shop”, Elena stares at me, “I did not know that was worth a lunch invitation.” 

“I apologize, Elena”, I comment. 

“I heard he missed someone's christening?”, Pan digs into a salmon bite. 

“It was for our nephew but that is no major deal”, Elena chomps a piece of calamari, “Not as major as your l-o-s-s, dear.”

My head throbs and the space around me grows blurry. I can hear the conversation but Pan and Elena are blobs at the moment.

“I missed out on $100,000”, Pan the blob crunches into another salmon bite.

“It is delightful to know money takes precedence over newborn children”, Elena the blob crunches on another piece of calamari. 

“Here is your food. Can I help you with anything else?”, the waiter blob questions. 

At least he appears joyous. 

“Water, please”, I beg.

Nothing is clear yet except the tension and the waiter's bottomless kindness. He scuttles back to the kitchen and I am at the blobs’ mercy. 

“Eliot, write your friend a check for $100,000”, Elena deadpans, “Be grateful Mom is deceased. She would not stand for this nonsense.” 

“I had no idea, Elena. I regret how cold I've been to you”, Pan whispers. 

“Water under the bridge. Cancer claimed her ages ago”, Elena whimpers, “She was tough yet joyful.”

The waiter shows up with water that I splash in my face. The blobs are people again and these two at the table diffuse their tension. Pan comforts Elena while she sobs. I reach out my hand to curl into Elena's. 

“I will write the check”, I utter in a half-smile.

“And I'll pay for your bumper, Eliot”, Pan chuckles. 

“You mean my b-u-m-p-e-r?”, I grin. 

Elena and Pan groan and I am flabbergasted. 

“N-o”, Pan quips. 

She and Elena cackle while I frown and write the check. Everyone's a critic.