To Good Things

Michael pulls out a chair for Cynthia and then joins her at the table.

“Can I get either of you something to drink besides water?” The waiter asks.

Michael looks to Cynthia. “A glass of whatever merlot you have is fine,” she answers.

“Make it the best, John,” Michael jumps in. “Whatever you have that’s the most expensive.”

Cynthia smiles, knowing not to object, as he’ll only insist. “Thank you, Michael.”

“Of course. You know you’ll always only have the best when I’m around.” He turns back to the waiter. “And your best single malt scotch, neat, for me. Thank you.”

“Sure, sir, right away.”

As he walks off, Michael’s eyes briefly survey their surroundings.

“I always love this restaurant,” he beams. “It’s the best in so many ways.”

“I know,” Cynthia says. “I’m glad you like it so much. That’s why I thought it would be the perfect place for the anniversary of the most important day of your life — of my life. Your birthday.”

Michael’s smile softens. “That’s sweet of you to say, dear, but you know the most important day of my life is when I met you.”

Cynthia playfully rolls her eyes. “Yeah, right…”

“I mean it,” he says.

The waiter approaches with their drinks, and Michael nods his approval. He then again turns to Cynthia with his cup raised, and she raises her glass.

“Here’s to good things, “he says. “A remarkable next chapter — all only the best things to come, for us both.

“Yes, to all the best things,” she repeats, and they clink and sip. “Happy Birthday, baby.”

“Thank you, baby,” he grins.

“So, do I even need to ask what you’re getting?”

Michael laughs. “I’m sure you don’t. I don’t doubt you already know…”

“Ah, yes,” she says. “Beef Wellington, glazed carrots, creamed spinach—”

“And...?”

“And…an additional side of creamy garlic mashed potatoes,” she finishes.

“Yes,” he smiles satisfactorily. “You know me so well.”

“I’d like to think so.”

“Yes,” he continues. “I figure, since today’s my big day, I want it to be the best meal of my life. And that always is, so the safe bet, it will be! And what about you? What will you get?”

“Hmmm I think I’ll just have their salmon salad this time.”

“That’s it? That’s all you want?”

“Yes, I think that’ll be enough. I’m not too hungry.”

“Oh okay, that’s too bad. They have so many wonderful options here. And I always enjoy watching you enjoy each of them.”

“Well, you can watch me enjoy the salmon salad this time and then maybe something else next time,” she says.

“Yes, I guess you’re right,” Michael agrees. "Maybe next time.”

In what seems like no time, the waiter brings their dishes—each steamy and cooked to perfection.

“Can I help you with anything else, sir and madam?” he asks.

“No, that’ll be all for now, John,” Michael responds. “This looks magnificent, thank you.”

Michael anxiously begins his first few bites, when Cynthia interrupts.

“Oh, shoot,” she says.

“What?” he looks up with a mouthful.

“I forgot to ask our waiter to grate some parmesan cheese over my dish.”

“Over your salmon salad?” his face distorts.  

“Yes, that’s how I like it. Love, would you mind going and finding him to bring some?”

Michael lingers for a few moments, staring back at her as if he wants to object or to say more, but he instead complies. “Of course, dear, let me go grab him. I’ll be right back.”

“Thank you,” she smiles sweetly.

As he walks off, Cynthia begins reaching into her purse under the table, still keeping her eyes on Michael until he’s out of sight.

Feeling her nerves rise, she looks down and sees a tube resting comfortably in her hand. She shakes it, and a powdery white substance bounces around inside. 

She opens the tube and briefly looks up again, around the dining area, and where Michael had just sat. A few drops are all that remain of his whiskey, and his glass of water is still nearly full, barely touched.

Hmm, it might stay that way, she worries.

She then reaches across the table and pours half the powder onto his creamed spinach. It looks like an avalanche fell on top a field of fresh spring grass. So, she quickly mixes it with his fork, to dissolve the substance.

She then hurriedly pours the other half onto his mashed potatoes, which of course doesn’t take as much to blend.

It would’ve been easiest to just mix it all in the mashed potatoes, but she has to cover all bases. Plus, she knows how much he adores his creamed spinach and will see to it that it is finished sometimes even before the Wellington. And she wants to give herself the best chance. After all, she’s been planning it for months. 

Cynthia hasn’t always known when or how she would do it. Or sometimes even that she would do it at all. Or rather, that she would need to.

Her final straw -- when she finally made the decision to go through with it — was when Michael recently came from his annual physical with a perfect bill of health: No heart issues, no blood sugar concerns, no breathing problems, nothing. Still not even so much as an allergy.

The bastard.

She didn’t know who she was more upset with about it: him or his doctor.

30 years. 30 long years, she’s waited patiently for that day when she would finally inherit what is rightfully hers. Which is basically all of his.

They have no kids. He has no living relatives. He made sure a long time ago that, once he goes, all that he has—which is a whole hell of a lot—goes to her, and her only.

And, although she did love him once upon a time, she hasn’t for many years now. And she decided some time ago that whatever love she does have is no longer for him but for what he comes with. What will one day be hers.

And hers only.

She had figured with his being a man and 10 years older than her, it shouldn’t be too farfetched that he would probably go a good while before her, giving her more than enough time to move on and fully enjoy that fortune by herself. No more sharing. No more having any limitations on what she can do, where she can go…and who she can she can do it with. ‘Who’ like a certain younger, hot Latin little thing she’s been seeing for the past seven years. The one with whom she has actually long been in love.

However, Michael’s past five years of being more serious about his diet and exercising clearly paid off. Wonderfully for him, not so much for her.

And she’s waited long enough.

“Oh, I thought you wanted the parmesan before you started your dish?” Michael asks as he re-approaches their table.

“Huh?” she looks down at her plate, where she’s already finished a few mouthfuls. “Oh yes, well I thought I would give it a try without it until you came back, and hey, it’s actually not so bad after all. I actually might not even need it!”

Actually. She hates parmesan cheese. Doesn’t he know that by now? I never get parmesan cheese on…anything, she thinks. But she needed something more specific and seemingly essential than mere salt and pepper that she would need to start her meal, so he would feel the urgency to hurry and leave the table for it.

And clearly, it worked.

“Oh, okay. Well, John said he’ll be here with it in just a second,” says Michael.

“Thank you, sweetie. I appreciate it,” she forces another smile.

“Of course.”

After taking his last bite, leaving the plate nearly as white as it began, Michael looks up at Cynthia. He grins once more, this time with soft eyes, almost as a sort of admiration.

“What?” Cynthia asks, puzzled.

“I love you,” he says.

“I love you, too,” she says back.

“No, I mean, I really love you,” he says. “I always have. And I always will.”

She says a bit uncomfortably, “Thank you, love. I feel the same.”

“Yes. And I also thank you…”

“Thank me?” her eyebrow raises. “Thank me for what? Dinner?”

“Well, in a way, yes. See,” he takes a sip of his second scotch. “I haven’t been the most satisfied with my life…for quite some time now. Or the happiest. I actually was profoundly sad—depressed, if you will?—for a long, long while…”

Cynthia’s gaze fixes onto Michael’s, her glass nearly missing her lips as she attempts another sip of her third merlot.

He continues, “Hell, that’s part of why I’ve tried so hard to make my life better and healthier for so long—working out more, eating better. I tried new hobbies, traveled to new places. Even tried therapy. But none of it worked. And eventually, more recently, that depression and despair has become more of an…indifference. It’s like… I’ve gained a sort of peace. An acceptance…about my life and myself. Accepting that I’ll never be happy. Or at least never again.” His eyes briefly wander off. "Maybe I once was, I don’t know. But there’s nothing and no one that can ever make me happy again.” His gazes returns to hers. “I see that now.”

Cynthia’s forehead scrunches. “Michael.. What are you talking about?” she whispers and then tries to discreetly look around in a look of confused embarrassment. 

“I’m talking about choices, Cynthia. We all make choices in life. And I long ago made mine. I’ve had enough time here trying to make my happiness happen. I really don’t need to see it any further. So, with that said, I’ve been wanting to—well, you know…put an end…to things.”

“What?!” Cynthia’s voice raised, genuinely shocked.

“Yes, see, but… I could never actually bring myself to do it. I guess, as unhappy as I’ve been, I’ve also been just as cowardice—perhaps even more so. Hence why I’m still here. I’ve even thought of different possible ways to do it. A gun, jumping off a building, walking out into traffic, or even in front of a train.” He looks up as he continues to recall. “I contemplated downing a bunch of pills, washed with my favorite whiskey. Hanging myself seemed too dramatic. Honestly, in the end, it all kind of seemed too dramatic. I just wanted to go—I didn’t want to have to be the one to do the…’go’-ing, if you will.”

Cynthia’s eyes remain planted on him, her lips slightly parted. She felt unable to move.

“So, imagine my luck,” Michael’s tone switches to a slightly upbeat direction. “And, admittedly, my surprise—when I was using your laptop for a few minutes a few weeks ago to check my e-mail, after I had left mine at work, to discover that you were…. planning… what you’ve been planning. I have to say you didn’t do a very good job at hiding it, by the way—“

“Michael, I don’t know what you’re talking about. This is ridiculous—”

“Ah, no, my sweet Cynthia..” Michael says with his first look of disgust. “Remember? Choices. And you made yours. Now, how about we spare us both your embarrassment of trying to deny it? We both know what’s on your computer. We both know that you just put God knows what in my food, and after sending me on that silly errand to run down the waiter. What, you think after 32 years, I don’t know you loathe parmesan cheese?! And in salmon salad, of all things?! It’s unfortunate—insulting even—how much you underestimate me. But you can rest easy knowing I downed…whatever that was, no problem. Although…” his eyes drift away again, “how especially cruel it would’ve been for me to have enjoyed that last meal without knowing and without…also wanting this.”

His words hang in the air for a few moments before he continues.

“Nonetheless,” his eyes return to hers, “it’s now in the process of doing what you wanted it to do. So, congratulations. By the way, do you happen to know around how much longer it’s supposed to take?”

Cynthia might as well be a statue. It’s as if someone’s watching a movie, and Michael’s part of the scene is being played, while hers is on Pause.

“Probably could be any second now, you think?” he answers himself. “And what exactly was the next part of your plan? I guess depending on what that stuff was, will it seem like I had a heart attack? A seizure, perhaps? A stroke? Anaphylactic shock, from an unknown allergy, which turns out to be fatal? Although,” his chin rests on his hand, “I guess that wouldn’t make too much sense, since I’ve had those dishes dozens of times before, with no such reaction. It’d have to be something a bit more unusual—”

“Michael, stop…”

“‘Stop’? ‘Stop'?!” his voice raises, and some of the other diners briefly glance up from their meals. “Stop’?” he leans into the table and says right above a whisper. “What’s there to stop? Things are already in motion. You get what you want. I get what I want. Oh, wait. Except.”

“Except what?” Cynthia blurts before realizing what her question might suggest.

“Well, you’ll get what you want of my being gone and out of the way — you know, so you can have your little… whatever it is, with that young man half your age.. Oh yeah, I know about that, too. Yeah, you can freely go run off with him into the sunset. But unfortunately, it’ll have to be without my money,” he feigns sadness.

“What?”

“Mmmm did you think I was going to learn you’re trying to kill me, probably mainly for my money, and just let you…take my money?? Wow, you’re more naive than I thought…”

Words escape Cynthia entirely.

“Ah, the wheels are spinning in that pretty, little red-haired head of yours, I’m sure. I bet right now, you’re thinking ‘what?’ ‘How?’ Wondering what I did, exactly? You want to know the details… Am I correct?”

Cynthia’s mouth remained quiet, but her eyes spoke volumes.

“Yes, so… As soon as I learned of this nifty little plan of yours, I immediately made a call to my accountant and saw that all of my beneficiaries were changed over to, well… Let’s just say, you aren’t the only one able to have a hot little thing around. Her name is Anita. A hot, sweet little waitress in Midtown. And my lover is Latin, too! Small world, right?!” He laughs to himself for a moment. “Ah, Anita is going to be a rich, rich woman. And she deserves it. I mean, granted, I’ve only known her for a few months, but I’m pretty sure anyone and anything’s gotta be better than someone I’ve known for several decades who’s trying to…kill me. Wouldn’t you agree, Cynthia?”

Cynthia’s breath is holding her at gunpoint. In these few moments, it isn’t doing what it’s supposed to in order to keep her alive. Wouldn’t that be something, that if in the process of trying to take her husband’s life, she ends up losing hers—from the heart attack alone, in learning he knew her plans all along? 

“Of course she’ll be devastated. Especially since she doesn’t even know you exist. She thinks she’s my entire world, and she’s crazy about me, so I know it’ll be especially hard for her, but I’m sure nothing a couple billion can’t fix. That should help with years of therapy. Along with whatever else she’d like. A nice yacht or few of her choice? Hell, her own island?”

I think I’m going to be sick, Cynthia thinks to herself.

“And to think,” Michael adds. “I only met and started seeing her after I’d learned you’d been seeing — what’s his name? Enrique? Jose?”

Diego, she thinks.

“Carlos? Ricardo? C’mon, you aren’t going to have me guessing forever, are you?!”

Cynthia’s eyes narrowed, her feeling of shock slowly progressing to anger.

“Well, whatever. You know what his name is. That’s all that matters. But I only started seeing Anita after I’d learned you had been seeing him. Before that, I loved you. I adored you, Cynthia. I gave you everything. Would’ve continued. Hell, I was even still willing to let you have pretty much everything, until… Well, you know.”

He goes on, “But again… Besides Anita, I’ve felt pretty alone for a while now, anyway… And I clearly wasn’t wrong in that feeling, because…yeah. So, here we are. In my final moments. Not quite what you bargained for, I know, but nonetheless… Cheers,” he raises his cup. "To great things.” And then downs his last sip.

************

“I’m fine, Mom,” Cynthia says over the phone and takes another sip of her coffee. “I had some things stashed away, so I’m still doing okay, I promise. No, I’m not ready to move on yet — it’s only been a few months. I know, but still… 30 years. I’m not ready yet. I know. Okay. Yes, I’ll be fine. Yes… Yes… Okay, I love you, too, bye.”

She hangs up and looks over at the table beside her. “Hey, what book is that you’re reading?”

“Oh,” says the dark-haired woman as she looks up. “Never Let Me Go,” by Kazuo Ishiguro.

“Oh, I don’t think I’ve heard of it,” says Cynthia. “Is it any good?”

“Well, I just started, but it so far seems pretty interesting. A friend recommended to me.”

“Oh okay, I’ll have to check it out. My name is Cynthia, by the way,” she says and extends her hand.

The woman smiles, partly taken aback by her random friendliness, and reaches to shake it. “Hey, Cynthia. I’m Anita…”