Our Revels Are Now Ended

Content warning: Language

They had to wait in line at the table, virtually side by side: she was on the left; he was on the right. David Lee Roth’s voice could be heard coming down the hall from the gymnasium, echoing through the corridors, going on about how bad he’s got it. Occasionally, the two exchanged glances and smiles. But each time one seemed about to talk to the other, one of the lines would move forward and they would be separated, starting the awkwardness over again. Doesn’t have a wife with him—she evaluated—wonder if he’s available? Eventually they made it to the front, almost at the same time, where they finally spoke, but only to the people across the table, while still exchanging glances with each other.

“Desiree Decker.”

“Michael Oster.”

They collected their name tags, with the yearbook photos from thirty-five years ago, and each went the way the lines made them: Desiree to the left, Michael to the right.

She saw him again at the bar, which had been set up beneath the end of the court nearest the locker rooms. The banner welcoming the Stroudsburg High Class of ‘90 hung over their heads, pushed out by the backboard that even in their day could never stay in the upright-and-locked position. The parade of ‘80s music continued to march out of the overhead sound system; featured at the moment was the Boss’s “Glory Days.” The two smiled briefly once more. She took a long draught of liquid courage, then took the plunge.

“Do I know you?” she asked, with a curious grin on her face. She studied him quietly as he sipped his own drink: he was tall and slender; his dark hair only showed a slight retreat from his forehead (and, from the back, had full coverage, putting him in the vast minority in the gym); he wore glasses, but in a way that looked natural, not like he was fighting them; he was in an understated navy suit, pinstriped, with white oxford and matching tie. He didn’t look familiar to her; she’d been attending these get-togethers every five years since their first in 1995, and she couldn’t recall seeing him before. Nor the picture attached to his chest. And she was fairly certain she would have, given how handsome he looked.

He shook his head eventually. “Apparently not.” He smiled weakly, and pointed to the identifying label he’d crookedly stuck to his lapel. “I sat behind you in English.”

She nodded, taking a sip, then acted like she remembered. “That’s right. Which year was that? After a while, it all runs together.”

He hid his mouth behind his glass as he answered: “Every year. All four.”

Her face dropped a bit. Michael Oster? She honestly couldn’t remember him. How could that be?!

“History, too. All four years.” He tilted his glass to take a swallow. She couldn’t see his face well and couldn’t read his eyes, what with the dim lighting and with his glasses in the way.

Now she just felt like an idiot. “Are you sure?” She honestly could not place him.

She saw his mouth this time. It was a smile, but not one of happiness; she took it to be mocking. “Quite positive. We were also in two science classes, two P.E. classes, and a health class.” He took another sip. “And typing.”

She looked away, feeling her face burning red. She saw other faces, familiar faces, in small clusters and pairings, chattering away. There was her former best friend, Jenn Babcock, standing alongside Desiree’s first husband, Brian Morris (their affair thirtyish years ago was why she’d divested herself of both). And over there was the guard from the basketball team, Scott Nolan, who asked her to prom in junior year (she’d had three invitations—including Brian—so had to turn him down). At least a hundred people in this room alone, and she recognized either them or their spouses, if not both; most had attended this very high school. Many of them had stayed in the area after graduation. But not Michael. She could not, for the life of her, call him to mind.

He remained completely quiet now, sipping at his drink, staring at her. She realized at some point that he was sipping from an empty glass, except for the ice; he was just occasionally wetting his lips with the melt-water, instead of having it refilled. She felt uncomfortable, distressed, embarrassed. He must absolutely hate me, making fun of me like that. In the background, another cowboy was singing a sad song.

She coughed an excuse into her hand, set her own glass down, and went into the girl’s locker room to freshen up. He said nothing as she left, still smiling in an ambiguous sort of way. She was now flustered, and could not put a finger on it, so studied herself in the mirror, to make sure she didn’t need to reapply any makeup. The intervening years had not been kind to her: her hair was a different shade now, hiding the streaks of gray that had spread through her long dark curls; she would have to lose half of her weight to have a hope to fit into her cheerleading or tennis uniforms; the slight discoloration on her left-hand finger, only noticeable to her, was the result of her most recent unfaithful husband. She tried to straighten her black dress, the type that was supposed to stay unwrinkled, but she could not even do that right.

She ended up slipping into the locker area, sitting on a sweaty wooden bench, surrounded by mesh metal lockers filled with current-day students’ gear. She felt the tears on her cheeks, and knew she’d definitely be looking in the mirror again before returning to the gym. When did everything go wrong? She kept the sobbing to a minimum; she could hear occasional noises from the other side of the door, as other women made use of the facilities, but no one else came in to disturb her. Not until she heard a soft pattern of knocks over Bon Jovi’s muffled promises to be there for someone.

Michael entered quietly, carrying two full glasses, not really looking at her. He set one down on the bench beside her, and then sat on a bench opposite, facing her, legs spread apart, elbows on knees. The room was unlit except for emergency lighting, so she had difficulty seeing his face in the shadows. However, she could tell that he was staring at her intently.

“I asked you out at least a dozen times.” His voice was soft and gentle, though she felt defensive and accused by the words.

“I’m so sorry… I don’t remember…?” she whispered, barely audible.

“No, you wouldn’t. They were all in my imagination.” She heard him chuckle. “I could have drunk a full bottle of this stuff, and I’d never have had enough… balls to come up and talk to you. Head cheerleader. State tennis champ. Queen of the Court. Homecoming queen—twice. Most popular. Best smile. Most likely to succeed….” His voice trailed off as he ran down the list of accolades that were once the most important things in her life.

“I didn’t,” she interrupted him, then took the glass and downed it in one gulp. “Two failed marriages. Three kids who want nothing to do with me. A college degree in a field that doesn’t hire, leaving me dependent on monthly alimony checks that haven’t even started coming yet, and it’s nearly been a year.” She threw the glass over her shoulder, and there was a shattering somewhere behind her.

“I’m sorry.” His voice was still soft, though in the quiet of the locker room it stood out; the only sound, now, other than them, was the echo of the music throbbing through the cinder-block walls. “I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories.”

She shook her head and laughed. “No. The memories are the only thing that was good. It’s everything since that was all fucked up.” She felt good to release a profanity. It felt right and proper. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fucking fuckity-fuck.” She laughed again.

“Your laugh still sounds the same.” His voice was friendly. “That laugh always broke my heart, knowing I’d never be the cause of it.”

She studied him. “Why not? I’m sorry, but I still—”

“Chess club. Computer club. Mathletes. Quiz bowl.” He shrugged in the darkness. “You were in your world, I was in mine.”

She nodded. Sighed. Felt ashamed. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he responded. “That’s how it was. It was high school. None of it really mattered. It didn’t define us as people then, and doesn’t now.” He finished his drink, then threw it over her head, same direction; there was the tinkling of broken glass falling to the floor.

She laughed. He laughed, then sighed. The music changed to a Billy Vera song, from that TV show back then. He stood and offered his hand. “Desiree Decker, may I have this dance?” She nodded, silent, and moved up to him, into his arms, resting her head on his shoulder, swaying to the rhythm.

She could hear him singing along to the song, a mere whisper, mumbling more than singing, but she enjoyed it and allowed the words to envelop her: “What do you think I would give at this moment?”

Eventually, the music ended, and they separated half a step each, studying each other in the darkness, still holding hands. She wanted to say something or do something or just about anything right now.

“I’m married.” His words were quiet. “We already had the plane tickets and hotel room, but Michelle, our daughter, is sick, so they stayed back home, but let me see some of my old friends and hangouts.” His tone was somber, matter-of-fact. “I’m… I’m sorry.”

She shook her head and squeezed his hands in hers. “No. I’m sorry. I should have noticed you years ago. I….” She couldn’t find the words, but added, "Thank you, at least, for being faithful."

“Are you going to be okay?” He sounded genuinely concerned.

“No, but… what choice do I have?” She smiled, and hoped he could see it in the lighting. It was a genuine smile, if perhaps a bit rueful. “I’ll fix my make-up and go talk to the people that I hated being friends with back then.” She shrugged. “Lipstick on a pig.”

He chuckled. “There are others, you know. Ones who didn’t marry, or who divorced. Don’t be afraid to leave that chamber. You’ll find someone, somewhere, trust me.”

She nodded again, gave him one more squeeze of the hands, then watched him walk through the door. She followed shortly thereafter, found the mirror again, and reapplied a full layer of make-up to repair her appearance. As Crowded House’s “Don’t Dream It’s Over” played over the speakers, she strolled back into the gym, ready to face the rest of the evening.