A Dinner For Two

Any onlooker would agree that, inside the cozy, yet cramped cottage, a romantic dinner for two was being made. Perhaps the chef, an old man with a beard like sandpaper and eyes like weights, was preparing a fine, home-cooked meal for his one and only. It was Valentine’s Day, after all.

Perhaps the beautiful rotisserie chicken, baked to perfection, was her favorite dinner. It wasn’t a sight you would see often at a restaurant with fame, but it was shiny and perfect, like a young child playing in a pool on a hot summer day.

Perhaps the mashed potatoes, fluffy as the snow outside, were her favorite food. They were white, pure, and creamy: a true spectacle. A trophy would not be enough for the man who whipped them, as they would outmatch a trophy’s shiny yet fake exterior. The simple but heavenly dish was made with real love, inside and out.

Perhaps the biscuits, shaped like obnoxiously large hearts, similar to something you’d see in a kindergarten classroom, would have stopped her short in her breath. Maybe the golden bread was the first recipe they had mastered together, yet only one out of the two lovebirds was present.

Perhaps the sauce, all but serving a real purpose, would’ve made her laugh, in a sweet, jolly way. Maybe it would have sounded like a guffaw, loud and genuine, mixed with a giggle, sweet and melodious. It was smeared across the white china adorned with pink roses. Maybe that was one of their wedding gifts. Maybe it was from a certain Auntie Elizabeth.

Perhaps the candles, carrying a scent of spring wherever the indecisive wind blowing through the caved-in windows would say, spreading the scent across the cottage that was barely large enough for a small family, would have made her blush. Maybe they would have caused her cheeks to warm up, causing enough heat to keep the two of them warm on a day like this.

Perhaps the drinks, a cocktail blend of sweet and tropical flavors, would’ve made her smile. Maybe this was the drink they had had on their honeymoon, a long trip to Bora Bora. Maybe her smile would’ve been so big, it would blind the nearest man.

Perhaps the sweet chocolate-covered strawberries would’ve given her the hiccups. After all, who could resist a delicacy so delicious? Even the sole fact that they were made by her lover would’ve been enough to cause her stomach to ache, to roar with the rage of Poseidon, or maybe Zeus. All for the name of love.

Perhaps the strawberry, raspberry, and watermelon-infused layered cake was a bit much, but, surely, it was something she would love. Maybe it was a request, or perhaps a subtle hint, that her lover had to have caught on to. Who wouldn’t give in to the desire, the wish, that their beloved had asked so kindly for?

Perhaps she was running late at work. A job is a job, and a begrudging commitment at that. A single thought of one’s other half, a soulmate, if you must, was sure to set a person back on track. Especially when a person loves another so greatly, even if they know that they might be alone. However, it wouldn’t be a first, either.

Perhaps she had stopped to get gas for her old and rickety Honda. In a world of the here and now, a minor setback, such as a stop at the local gas station, was likely to slow down any day. A sluggish day, such as this one, could easily be turned around by a small, yet vital thought; one that could make any person smile to herself.

Perhaps she had stopped for donuts, even though she was on a diet. Why would something like that matter, considering the luxurious dinner that was all set out at the rotting pine-wood table? It was surely getting cold by now; wasn’t it?

Perhaps she had met one of her old friends from college on the way. Maybe she had been stopped by a person she had complained for hours about, yet always smiled in their presence. Encounters like that could take quite some time, so this was not a huge catastrophe. How long could people talk for?

Perhaps she was being held back by her tall, young, and peppy boss whose name was Angie. Maybe she was finally receiving that promotion she had been praying for, nights on end. The one she had claimed would make everything better. The one that would move the lovebirds out of the old house and into one large enough for family and friends to visit. That must be it.

Perhaps she was purchasing a gift for her lover. Even though she was told multiple times that it was unnecessary, she was persistent. The only way an independent and sweet woman like her knew how to show love was by buying, which usually seemed like an excuse for shoes. She always knew what was in style and what wasn’t.

Perhaps she was stopping to buy a movie at her all-time favorite store, Movie Night Magicians, the one that sold the most popular movies, along with snacks like organic candies and gourmet popcorns. Maybe she was buying that blockbuster she had tried to convince all that she knew was a “true cinematic experience.” It was hard to believe, but a grin like hers made everything that spilled out of her mouth easily plausible. Who knew if she was right?

No matter what the man told himself, he was aware of the fact that he would be alone once more for what once was his favorite holiday. The clock ticked on, climbing up the hill towards 8 o’clock and beyond. A lonely droplet of a salty nature dripped down his wrinkled cheeks. It was a surprising fact that the elderly man had any more tears to let loose. He had been nothing but a hermit for the past decade, only leaving his house to take his morning walks at the break of dawn. He had always been one to exercise, although it had gotten terribly harder over the swift course of his life.

He sighed deeply and, on his breath out, caused the chair he was on to groan loudly. Almost as of instinct, he glanced over at the only other chair at the small table, a hint of hope in his swelling heart. But, to no luck; he was alone in a small house. There were no other noises than the wind howling mournfully, causing a chill to run down the old man’s twisted spine. He had suffered through worse winters; a little frostbite would never hurt a man like him. He left the window open.

The man sat in his stubby chair for quite a while. Any onlooker would have to say that he was deep in thought, perhaps thinking about the exquisite dinner set out in front of him. He wasn’t going to eat a scrap of it. He refused to. He didn’t even know why he tortured himself anymore.

An extended amount of time passed, and the man remained in his designated chair. His feet were aching from the shuffling around the kitchen he had done hours before, yet he kept them firmly rooted on the ground. His hands were rough from the food he had prepared, yet he kept them clasped together tightly, letting no air in or out. His heart was aching with the strength of a thousand grief-stricken mothers, yet he kept his eyes staring dead ahead and his mouth grim.

At the crisp stroke of midnight, a truly stunning and extraordinary tune freed itself from the grasps of the clock hung on the wall above the table. The man closed his eyes and listened, swaying his head to the sounds he had become accustomed to and had perhaps taken for granted. When the moment of bliss came to a halt, the man opened his eyes once more, but, this time, they were moist and shiny. He turned his head slowly and carefully to his left and stared. It was the only thing he had left.

There she was, yet she was sixty years younger than when he had last seen her. Her blue eyes shone with happiness and her blonde hair was curled and styled skillfully. She looked like an angel. And she was, or, at least, close to it. She had been the best thing that had ever happened to the man. And there he was, next to her, smiling a smile so crooked it had made himself wince out of embarrassment. That was one of the best days of his life. His suit was his father’s, and his father’s before that, and so on. This was the one time he had worn it, and he had worn it with pride. Her dress reminded him of snow tipped roses, even to this day. It was truly a magnificent sight, and it shone with the strength of a million fireflies. They had caught and released fireflies on the night after their wedding.

Another tear ventured its way down the cheek of the old man, but he quickly swiped it away. There was no use to crying; he had learned that a while ago, but it was hard not to. Before another wave of sadness could wash over the man, he stood up abruptly, causing another shriek from the chair, and started toward his room, lonely. He only spared one last look at the framed picture, and mustered nothing but a hopeful glance at the woman he loved. Perhaps it was time for bed.