by Lisa Katzenberger
Lisa lives in Chicago and is a StoryStudio Chicago student. She is currently working on her first novel. Her work has appeared in Quality Women’s Fiction and Foliate Oak.
I thought I would hate it, but Deborah wanted to go, said we had to go, didn’t really invite me, just told me I was going. So here I am, in the back of an auditorium at the Art Institute, trying to be a good husband, listening to the lecture with one eye on the door, ready for a quick escape should I come up with an excuse for one. The lights are dim for the slide show, and yes, let’s mention that I thought the idea of a slide show – a genuine one with slide projectors, not that PowerPoint crap – is awfully romantic. I think of saying this to Deborah, but am certain she wouldn’t get it. I’m actually sitting here thinking how I can’t tell her these types of little things anymore. How I filter the thoughts that come out of my head based on the likelihood of her rolling her eyes at me. This is what our marriage has become.
As I’m having this thought, this terrible, awful thought, I see her from the corner of my right eye. This lovely woman steps out from behind her row of dull red chairs. She walks up the inclined aisle, on her tiptoes, wearing a smooth black dress. It’s probably her basic black dress. But there is nothing basic about it. It is perfect. It hugs her hips and highlights her waist. And even though I can’t really see it, I am quite certain it wraps around her behind very nicely. Tastefully. Nothing overt. Just a lovely mix of lines and curves and shapes. I bet that art instructor up there would have a comment about the form of the dress. I don’t know what the technical words are, but regardless, I find it to be just, well, right.
And that is not even the best part. It’s not even the dress. It’s what this woman is doing. What catches my attention, really, is her hand. Her right hand. She holds it against her chest. Not on her bosom, but that higher part of her chest. Just beneath the tendons of her long, graceful neck. The collarbone, I guess. As she steps underneath a glimpse of the canned ceiling lights, I realize what she’s doing. Her hand rests upon a slightly clunky necklace, and even though it’s dark, I’m certain it’s brown and earthy. She’s holding the two strings of clunky brownness down against her skin, so
as she politely excuses herself from the room during the lecture, the pieces of her necklace do not dangle and clank into one another, disturbing the audience.
In this one moment, this one slight move, this wonderful lady introduces herself to me. She doesn’t come over and say, “Hi, my name is….” But in her movement, in her self, just being there, being delicate, she introduces me to her world of beauty. I lose my breath in that very moment.
I absolutely have to get up and follow her. Even though I’m holding Deborah’s sweater in my lap—why she can’t hold it in her own lap, who knows—I have to go. I make some sort of motion to Deborah, handing over her sweater. She rolls her eyes.
In the lobby, I’m disappointed to find only the security guard. I stand there a moment, considering this bold move of mine. I see this breathtaking woman and I get up from beside my wife to chase her. Now what? What, in my mad world of fantasy, is supposed to happen next?
And before I can answer this, before I can come to the logical conclusion of turning myself around and sitting back down next to my cold wife, I see the woman again. She steps out from a hallway that has a subtle gold-plated sign that reads “Washrooms.” She smoothes out the fabric of her dress. She takes one step out into the lobby and looks to her right and her left as if she’s crossing the street. As she moves her head, her hair swings along behind it, chestnut and wavy. Beautiful and bouncy, curling just below her shoulders. She takes a step to the left and her hand goes up to her chest again, as if in slow motion.
I gasp, elated to witness this movement twice in one night. And as my eyes regain their focus, I find her looking at me, likely reacting to my sudden inward breath. With her right hand and without raising her arm up, she gives me a little wave. I wave back. A slight move of my hand to match hers. I look down to witness my hand make the actual movement, simply because I don’t believe it’s happening. I don’t believe this beautiful woman is waving at me, and I certainly don’t believe that I’m waving back. But there is my right hand, raised just parallel to my elbow, fingers pointed upward and slightly parted, moving to the left and right, repeatedly, slowly.
I accept the movement of my hand, because there I am looking at it, and there it is happening, and then I look up again and she’s gone. Not gone out of my life, of course. She’s merely around the corner, heading back to the seat she came from. I know the exact spot. I could walk right up to her, tap her on the shoulder from behind, pull back her hair and whisper into her ear how lovely she is. Or I could stand here, wait for the lecture to end, and hope to catch her eye as she walks through the lobby to the exit. I could do either of these things. I could also go back to my seat next to my wife and forget this woman, this stranger. Not literally, not erase her from my mind. But forget about pursuing this moment. Forget about finding out if she’s here with a husband or boyfriend. Forget about seeing her again, discovering what her hair smells like, speaking her name from my lips.
I consider my options, surprised that I think there are several to resolve this situation instead of just one – get her out of your head, go sit with your goddamn wife. And then I hear a thunder of applause from the auditorium and I’m not alone in the lobby. I’m surrounded by the audience who adjust their eyes to the light, some gathering their fall sweaters and coats, others darting right to the cash bar.
I desperately hope Deborah will not find me first, not before I can see this wonderful lady, not before my fantasy escapes me. And then I’m tapped on the shoulder from behind and I cave my shoulders downward and inward in defeat, ready to face my wife and have her drive us home. But it is not my wife, it is my dream. She stands right in front of me, her necklace and beauty and everything, and she smiles. Right at me. I search for words, but I’m awash with nerves and excitement and desire and fear.
She frowns a little, just slightly, but her eyes still smile. She considers me. “You don’t remember me, do you?” she says.
How could I forget her? What is she talking about?
“We met at the Cultural Affairs Christmas party,” she prompts me.
I remember the Cultural Affairs Christmas party, I remember being hammered, I remember Deborah yelling at me for embarrassing her in front of her important friends, but I do not remember this lovely woman.
She leans in to me a little and says in a hushed voice, “You were a little out of it.”
I’m embarrassed and certain I’m turning red.
“You were filling your plate with appetizers and complaining that these hoity-toity events never served ‘those great little pigs in their blankets.’” She laughs.
I notice this woman extend her hand, even though I stand there, speechless in front of her like a severe dope.
“I’m Elizabeth,” she says.
“James,” I say, taking her smooth hand in mine and shivering a bit. I feel like I’m in trouble.
“Yes, I know,” she says.
“Hello.” It’s all I can manage. I’m dumbfounded and I’m sure that I look it.
“So,” she says.
“So,” I state.
“How is Deborah?”
“I’m sorry?” Oh shit. As soon as I say those awful words, I’m thinking oh shit, how obvious do I need to be?
“Your wife?”
“Right,” I say. “Deborah. Deborah is fine. Deborah is just great.” This is not true, as I’m quite certain Deborah actually hates me.
Elizabeth smiles and fidgets with her earrings. I didn’t even notice she had earrings. But they dangle from her ears, just barely. Little strips of gold dripping from her lobes. Light and perfectly delicate.
“Are you okay?” she asks me.
No, I’m not. “Fine. Thank you, I’m fine.” I think I’m sweating. “And yourself?”
Elizabeth reaches her hand up to cover the smile on her lips. She clears her throat a bit. “I’m just great, thank you.”
We stand there. Just looking at each other. “Marvelous,” I say. Crap. Who the hell uses a word like marvelous?
“It is, isn’t it? Really, a marvelous museum.”
“Oh, yes. The museum.”
“Isn’t that what you were…” Her question trails off. She shifts her weight to one heel.
I am so uncomfortable. I am such a jackass. I should just get out of here. I’m not made for this type of stuff. I wish I was the suave guy who could sweep a woman like this off her feet. Say the right thing, make the right moves, tell the right joke.
“I should get--” I start, but she interrupts me or I trail off, I don’t know which.
“Listen, I don’t know how to do this.”
Holy. Shit.
“It’s kind of awkward, really.” She’s hitting on me. This beautiful precious being is hitting on me.
“It’s just that…” she starts, then stops. “Oh, out with it.” Here it comes. I’ve never felt like this in my life. “You see, the Cultural Affairs Board, we’re trying to recruit new members for the Board of Directors.”
Holy. Shit. I am so fucking embarrassed. And it doesn’t matter that it’s just in my head. That she has no idea I thought she was going to ask me out. I will drown in my own pool of humiliation just for being so sure of myself. I will never let myself live this one down. Nice going, jackass.
“I’m new, and I’m supposed to find people to nominate. I’ve never really done this, I’m not good at this. I’m supposed to make this speech and tell you the benefits of it and what you can bring to the community. But really, we just need to find people with money who work at big companies, and I figure I should just be honest about that.”
She pulls her hair behind her ear, shifts her weight to the other heel. She’s a nervous talker. This lovely woman I’ve been in awe of is a nervous, chatty talker. I stare at her, still.
“Okay then,” she says, stretching out her okay in that funny way to show she’s feeling awkward. Okaaay, or something like that. “I don’t know, the way I see it, if we’re after the money of these powerful people, we should just say that. They probably dig that.” Then she stops. “Man. I shouldn’t have said that either.”
Several things here. Money. That’s why Deborah is still married to me. Shit, Deborah. Deal with her later. Powerful. Elizabeth thinks I’m powerful. That’s awesome. And she uses the word dig.
She is not only breathless, but human and nervous and weird. All right, so weird is a stretch right now. I don’t have any evidence that she is weird, but I desperately want her to be weird. I am weird. People are weird. No one is normal. No one is perfect. She looks perfect, but when she talks, she is human. And that is precisely what is perfect about her. She’s not a little doll you put up on a fancy shelf and just observe and hope she doesn’t say much. This woman wants to be talked to, to be reckoned with. I can see it in her eyes. Her shimmering nervous eyes that are avoiding me this moment.
“Hey,” I say. Suddenly, I have guts. “I think it’s great.”
“Excuse me?” She tries to tuck her hair behind her ear again, but it’s already tucked. It’s stowed away behind her ear, doing just fine.
“That’s great that you’re honest.” I feel like I’m drunk.
“I thought you were going to kill me.” Her eyes relax, her hair spills out from behind her ear, her slight weight balances itself back upon both feet. “When I said that stuff about money and power.”
I lean into her this time and whisper, “Men love hearing that.”
She leans back, and then slightly in to me, and laughs. I think her hand reaches over and touches my arm. But maybe I imagine that. It’s totally possible.
“Don’t tell anyone.” I try to push it further.
“It’s no secret,” she shoots back, leaning and laughing some more.
We laugh and smile and relax and are so happy with ourselves. It is wonderful.
I drink too much champagne. I’m whisked off within a group of almost-drunk do-gooders to a local bar. I realize an hour later that Deborah isn’t there. My cell phone doesn’t ring all night. If Deborah wanted me at home, I surely wouldn’t still be here. Yet I’ve known all night exactly where Elizabeth is at any given moment.
I’m drunk and it’s late, and she’s at the end of the bar, looking brilliant. I shake my head at myself, walk over to her and ask her if I can buy her a drink. She looks surprised and scared. Not bad scared, but nervous scared. She shifts her eyes around the room, then they fall back on me, sweet and quiet.
* * *
Four hours later, I slowly open the front door to my house. A light is on in the living room. I remove my coat and head to the kitchen for a glass of water. I wash my hands. As I tiptoe down the hallway, I hear Deborah coming down the stairs. Shit.
She has on those gray sweatpants I hate and one of my old college sweatshirts I always move out of her dresser and back into mine. Her blonde hair is tangled. She rubs her eyes.
“Thank God you’re home.”
What? Really?
“I was worried.”
Seriously?
“You just don’t ever stay out this late. Not even when you’re with the guys.”
“Sorry.” What else can I say?
She crosses her arms and hugs herself a bit. “Are you okay?”
“What?”
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll be fine.”
She nods and releases her arms back against her sides.
“Go back to bed, honey.” I haven’t called her honey in ages. I wonder if she notices.
“I do love you, you know.”
I hang my head. I may either cry or throw up.
“I know you think I hate you.” How does she know that? “I don’t. Things haven’t been the best between us lately. Or for a while, really.”
I can’t respond verbally, so I nod instead.
“So…I don’t know. Just, I’m glad your home.”
Me too, I think. I try to say it out loud. “Me too.” Yes, it sounds true. It’s better this way.
“Come to bed?”
Without a word, I walk upstairs to our bedroom, throw myself down on the bed, and fall asleep next to my wife.
###
