Ready Again

This is my worst nightmare. It was the first thought that popped into mind when Chase spotted his ex-fiance taking a seat at a small table mere yards away from where he sat.  A tall male helped her take off her coat.  Still facing away, both ‘the ex’, Rita, and her new whatever-he-was-boy-toy had yet to be revealed in their entirety just yet.  It’s funny how winter can hold secrets under coats and hats this way.  The removal of her jacket revealed what Chase had hoped not to see: his favorite dress. 

It was the one she had worn the night of their first anniversary.  He had forgotten about how his coupon had been denied, and she had had to help pay.  He had forgotten the argument that ensued on the drive home.  He had forgotten the glass that had been broken in the sink later that night.  He had forgotten the mascara stained pillow he saw when she left earlier than usual for work the next morning.  Instead, Chase found himself mesmerized yet again by the pink fabric that enveloped her petite body.  She had even topped it off with the stiletto heels he used to love to see her wear.  It was as if he were watching his own date from the previous year.  Entranced, he struggled to look away.

“Chase? Did you hear what I said?” his date beckoned from across the small table.  Julia was quite beautiful.  Most men would likely say she was unquestionably prettier than Rita.  While Rita carried the ora of mystery within her green eyes and dark hair, Julia was a natural beauty who cleaned up like a fashion model.  

“I’m sorry?” He answered without breaking his longing gaze on the pink instrument of his attention.

Detecting his distractedness, Julia calmly turned around to see a petite girl in a pink dress taking a seat in a nearby booth with the rear profile of a red-bearded man.  “Do you know them?”  She asked as she turned back to Chase.

“Her.”

“Oh,” she offered calmly and without reservation. “She’s pretty,” was all she added before returning to her thoughts, a casual recounting of her day, and the menu.

“Some bread for the table,” the waiter quietly murmured.  He put down the metal basket which had folded, cloth napkins concealing the freshly cut, warm bread.  It’s notable how freshness adds an unmistakably desirable quality to things.  He placed next to it a matching metallic carrier that had oil, parmesan, and cracked red pepper, all in separate, brushed silver dispensers.  “Were we thinking about any appetizers?  Might I recommend something simple?  Our ceviche is our most popular and signature starter, but our bruschetta has an elegant simplicity to it that I dare venture to guess you’ll find refreshing.”

“Chase?” His gaze still hadn’t broken.  “Chase,” Julia asserted, finally snapping him free.

“What? Yea. Sure.  Whatever you want.”  Chase hadn’t at all heard nor processed the interactions between Julia and the waiter.

Julia had yet to perceive Chases’ dismissiveness in responses.  Instead, she smiled and nodded at the waiter who nodded in return, half-bowed and retreated into the depths of the restaurant, disappearing into the clinging of expensive cutlery to plate, jingling ice in water-filled wine glasses and the muffled chatter of Chicago’s finest exchanging their privileged problems..

Chase finally managed to bring his eyes to his menu, but not before giving Julia a quick smile to throw her off the scent of his thoughts.  She resumed recounting her day aloud as she obliviously perused her menu as well.  His eyes gently cascaded over the text, drowning out the uninterrupted detailing of his tablemate.  

Chicken parm.  His mind read aloud.  It’s what he had ordered that night.  ‘Her’ dish he couldn’t recall.  The corners of his eyes began to burn and fight against his will not to regain his stare at his former love.  And then- a laugh. Her laugh.  He knew without looking that her head would be tilted back.  He knew she would then cover her mouth.  She was never proud of the smile he had learned he would have trouble removing from his mind.  She was probably pushing her hair back over her shoulders and struggling to close her smiling, pursed lips closed like a child who doesn’t want to smile.  And then, the smell.

Chase was amazed it had taken so long to crawl into the fibers of his nose.  Newport 100s.  Chase was one of those people who smoked for years but never called himself a smoker.  Truth be told, he wasn’t.  He was and had only been playing a part.  He played the part of the riches to rags kid. He played the part of a childhood victim turned adult asshole.  He played many parts in the world ‘all a stage’.  The smell of chain smoke Newports, though.  It struck him to memory like grandma’s thanksgiving casserole takes a grown man back to his childhood.  As per usual, her jacket had carried it in with her.  Following her like a black smudge on a white shirt.  That.  It all came back quickly after that.

Suddenly, he recalled the full bongs and empty bank accounts.  He recalled the passionate love-making, soured by conversations that both preceded and anteceded the heat.  A memory struck harder, his brain recanting him like a ghost of Christmas past with tales of brokenness, empty pockets, power shut-offs, where were you's, and of course, full ashtrays.  There would always be, in triplicate, two-puff-remaining butts of her cigarettes.  She couldn’t even finish that properly.  Like a trailer trash savings account, they lingered in hand-me-down “crystal” ashtrays that her dead father had “collected” and then had left behind.  It had been months since his last cigarette now.  Weeks since he’d even thought about it.

At that moment, however, Chase felt the craving, if but for only a moment.  He longed to take a drag.  His lips could practically taste the fresh paper, awaiting a long inhale with a pause before a thorough exhale.  His chest opened and closed as if to experience it through the osmosis of the air and psychosomatic response.  His deep inhale caused his eyes to close.  For that moment, all was quiet. The bustling of the restaurant paused as if frozen in time.  He thought of the time they shared a cigarette in the alley of a Chicago club which wasn't far from the seat he currently occupied..

Rita had charmed a square off of a Persian group standing in a huddle by the street.  She could always do that.  She had a way with strangers.  Smoking in the alley together, they didn’t speak.  Not a word was exchanged as they took turns blowing billowy smoke into the brick encasement that surrounded and watching it dissipate into the night air as it seemed to disappear into the moon itself.  The last of the warm fall breezes and the gentle sound of late evening traffic in the city was enough to fill the air.  Trading coy grins and occasional deep eye contact, they gently passed the small burning ember back and forth.  The memory brought a slight smile to his face.  

Chase opened his eyes from his reflection to find an incredibly beautiful woman sitting across the table.  She snapped the menu shut with a look of decision, and the restaurant air escorted her intoxicating perfume to Chase’s side of the table.  His next inhale was euphoric.  He found himself daydreaming of meadows and waterfalls, of honeybees and butterflies.  The feeling you get after a good shower came over him, and his muscles relaxed.  Sometimes you don’t realize you’ve been holding your breath until you’re finally able to exhale.

“Are we ready to order?” A voice entered.

“Yes,” answered Chase quickly.  He took another look across the table.  For the first time that evening, Chase looked- truly looked at his date.  She was a ten if there ever were one.  “I’m ready.”  Again.  He thought.

One more. One more and then never again.  He looked once again to find Rita’s face only to be met by the smile of an elderly woman sitting with a man whose spoon trembled as he brought it to his lips. The woman, dressed in a woven, pink dress, befitting of a first lady, offered Chase an approving grin.  He shook his head and let himself feel a chuckle.

“And for you, sir?”