Now, Now

They were seated one table away from the table where years ago they sat and smelled summer rain through the restaurant's only window and spent all night talking about life as though it were a painting wet from their very own breath. But tonight there was a frost outside and they agreed to an early dinner because of their long drives to work in the morning.

The sun sets too early this time of year, he thought when the couple sitting at the table next to them lowered the restaurant's only window shade against the winter sun.

For five minutes they took turns looking at each other while the other pretended to look away. He looked at her and followed the shape of her cheek to her chin, and then turned his attention to the deep mahogany walls and imagined that just past the ceiling they must have risen into the sky. She saw lines in the corners of his face that she never saw before, and then glanced around at the kitschy light fixtures hanging above each table and wondered if a ceiling had ever been so low.

They hadn't said a word until the waiter finally arrived and they placed their orders.

We'll be okay, he said in his mind, looking her in the eyes.

We'll get through this, he continued to himself. We will bring the sun to its knees. We'll take ancient trees and wrap them around our fingertips. We'll kiss again and swallow the ocean. We'll put mountains in our pocket and carry the wind on our back. We'll fly. We'll dance in poems and paintings and we'll taste music. Yes, we can still tame the world. We will have a baby.

She watched him and for a moment he felt the walls beginning to shrink and the ceiling rising away and he was certain that if he walked over to the restaurant's only window and opened it wide that everyone would see the sun reversing course back into the sky.

She stopped fidgeting with her fork and straightened her shoulders in the slightest way.

"I don't believe you anymore," she said.