Dinner

Kailash Srinivasan

I don’t usually get nervous but I get nervous when my publicist tells me the next city on the promotional tour of my book is Vancouver. My heart beats, beats, beats, makes its own tune. My former wife and I haven’t spoken to each other in years. I have no idea what her life’s like now, how she looks, even. But every time my name appeared in an article, or my book was shortlisted for this or that award, or I was on some panel—those kinds of things—I sent her an email and some post-event photos. There was no reason to, except I wanted to be in the periphery of her life, along the edges of her thoughts. Dick move, like my friend says. I get it. She opened them. I know this because I have an app that tells me if the receiver has seen my email. But she never wrote back.

It’s not even evening and it’s dark already. No one would believe that the sun was out just a minute ago. It’s raining now, slow, still deciding whether or not to cause a full-on kerfuffle. Vancouver’s always PMS-ing, the same friend says. To me, it’s beautiful in an achy, depressing way.

Sitting on a low-back swivel chair, I’ve read a little from my new book, droned into the microphone; I’ve sighed the answers to the same stupid questions— “Is it true that you draw heavily from your life?” “Could anyone become a writer?” I’ve signed copies for a few, devoted enough to stand in a queue. But most of them will toss the book away and never return to it. I have posed for selfies, smiled without wanting to smile. Then I excuse myself and call her. I didn’t think she’d answer. She answers. It’s a bad idea. I do it anyway. I ask her out to dinner.

She’s at the table by the back of the restaurant, by the washrooms. She knows I hate sitting near the washrooms. I wave. She sees me and forks a few fries into her mouth. There’s not a raise of an eyebrow, much less a smile. She still dyes her hair raven-black, I used to call her curl-girl; her skin has more lines; that pinched nose, and my nerves get busy. Her eyes, when they look up, are brown, melancholic, there’s agony in them. And I want to kiss her, look after her. I’d listened to her once tell me about watching her mum leave at night with a bag in hand. She went back to sleep, thinking her mum would return later.  

She drops her fork. When I bend to pick it up she puts her hand up, as though it’s a favor I’ll hold her to later. I take a seat. It’s an upscale place, I don’t want drama.

She points to her plate and says, Hope you don’t mind.

She says, Of course, why would you?

I say, I don’t.

Good.

When we were still together, she’d scream, I’d scream; we’d go sometimes from this realm to a parallel universe; from how I never cleaned the house to how fucked up our marriage was within a few minutes of getting into it. That always amazed me, the leaps from the mundane to the sombre. Sometimes it was about how she thought she was undesirable to me because we didn’t have sex as often; or that if I scrolled through our text exchanges, it was always her who asked after me, whether I had eaten, slept well, and never the other way around; she’d call me a dick, I’d call her a bitch, and we wouldn’t talk for a day before we’d start again.

I ask the waiter to get us a bottle of Merlot, a make we both like.

I have a signed copy of my book with her name on it, I tell her.

I haven’t had a sip of my wine before she gets to it.

She says, Remember, you used to joke about stripping me naked and pushing me out the door for the world to see? You finally did it, eh?

I say, It’s not like that, no one will know it’s you in the book. 

What about my friends, my family? You don’t think they’d know it’s all me? All the things I say?

I was in the city and wanted to—

She says, What did you expect? That I’d jump in your arms? Kiss your feet because you did me a huge favor by calling me?

She has her wine, closes her eyes.

I hear her swallow.  

She says, I was such a fool. To think how besotted I was with you. Fucking besotted. Just wanted to be around you all the time. Anyone will tell you you were a lucky son of a bitch to have me.

She says, You know why I came out here today?

She says, To tell you to stop sending me those fucking emails. I don’t want to know anything about you.

I say, You can just mark them as spam.  

She says, I can, but I am not an asshole, like you.

She says, Remember, how you’d come in from the cold and tuck your fucking freezing toes under my legs? And I never said shit.

She says, How you always took the best pillow for yourself.  

She says, Then you wrote me that shitty poem once. With your blood. I didn’t say anything, because it was your blood. It was a terrible poem.

She says, I told you stick to fiction.

She laughs at this. She lifts the sleeve of my shirt, feels the gash with her nail.

She says, You were different then. In the beginning anyhow. The way you looked at me. Like I’d saved you or something. But once New Yorker accepted that story of yours, your head was hard to find, it had gone way into your ass.

She says, Sometimes I dream about you. In that dream, you’re a stray dog I find on my street. You wag your tail, think you’ve found a home. But we get into my car, and we drive far-far away. When we get there, the place is deserted; crickets and wolves and owls screech into the night and you jump to my side, already loyal, ready to hurt anyone who wants to hurts me. When you’re busy looking for a treat I fling across a bush, I leave you there and drive away. I don’t look back once.

A pretty girl with a nose ring comes up to our table.

I love all your books, she says in that vague sort of way young people of today have.

She says, Your characters feel real, like I know them from somewhere.

She says, You in town a bit? I’d love a drink. Want to give me your number?

Again that same casualness, like getting a drink is nothing, like sex is nothing. Everything is whatever, my friend says.  

I say, I’m out in the a.m.

She says, Give it to me anyway. I’ll call you next time.

I scribble some digits on a tissue and hand it to her.

My ex-wife’s eyes follow the girl right to the door.

I say, That wasn’t my real number.

She says, Why are you telling me this?

She says, It doesn’t bother me anymore. You can sleep with anyone you want.

She says, You could’ve walked out with her right now and I wouldn’t have blinked.

I say, I didn’t mean it like that.

She gives me a look: Pity? Disgust? I can’t tell.

I say, I just wanted her gone.

I say, Anyway, let’s talk about the good times.

She says, Your parents should’ve named you Mr. Sensitive.

She says, I was the one who believed in you when no one gave a shit. No one knew who the fuck you were.

I say, I’ll never forget that.

The couple on the table beside us is whispering to the server; asking her to seat them elsewhere.

My publicist keeps calling. I disconnect the call.

Our server approaches us again with the menu. I wave him off. 

I say, People can hear us.

I say, I don’t want them to be saying things.

She says, You’ve hung me in public like a dirty cloth and you’re worried people would talk about you?

I say, I shouldn’t have said that, I’m sorry.

She says, Damn right.

She says, The thing with memories is that no one can claim the copyrights. They are as much yours as mine, I guess.

She says, You know what’s really sad?

She says, You see me better than I see myself. Things you’ve said about me in the book. She says, I believe those things about me.

I say, You hungry? Should we order something?

She says, I’m alright but you go ahead, order.

I say, It’s okay, I don’t feel like it now.

She says, Whatever. You’re not a baby. Just don’t go die on me. That’ll be on me too.

I say, I won’t.

She says, Don’t be stupid, order something.

She expects me to signal the waiter. When I don’t, when I just sit with my hands in my lap, she says, Why the fuck did you ask me over anyway? What more do you want? I have nothing more to give.

She says, You want my blood? I can give you that.

She says, Don’t think for one second I came because I still think about you.

She says, Don’t think I’ll abandon the life I’ve got now and come running to you each time you’re in town. Those days are over.

She says, What is it this time? Are you depressed again? Can’t shit without having a smoke first? Your book’s not doing well? Whatever the fuck it is, go to someone else, alright?

Alright. 

She says, You never had a problem in that department anyway. Some stupid woman always fell for your bullshit charm. Look at me.

She says, Just leave me out of it. I’m done changing your diapers.

She says, I know you’ll even write about this evening.

She says, You’ll say, she’s still the same old bitch.  

She says, You can’t help it even if you wanted to.

She says, That’s your curse. You’re always thinking about what you can use from your own life.  

She says, You’re a rat. You won’t say shit to my face. You never do. Never did. Like now, I’m running my mouth and you sit there like none of this ever mattered to you. Maybe it didn’t. But you’ll write about it.

I say, I won’t. I want to hear you talk.

She snorts.

She says, You told me once to stop barking.

People are watching us, listening to us. She’s had four glasses of wine.

I say, Do you want more wine?

She says, Damn right.

She says, When you cheated the first time, it killed me. I thought it was my fault. I cried. That’s all I ever did back then. Staring in the mirror and crying.

She says, But I stayed.

We’re about to close, sir. Are you ready to order?

She says, Wine, more wine, and I’ll have this bastard pay for it. Get us something to eat, or Mr. Writer here will starve to death and I’ll read about how it was my fault in his obituary.

The waiter brings another red and spaghetti in tomato sauce.

The kitchen is now closed, sir.

I say, Keep talking, please.

She says, Leave me alone, stop sending me shit, stop reminding me who we were, used to be, could’ve been. I want anonymity. That’s what I want. Can you give me that?

She looks down, shakes her head, as if she can’t bear to remember something.

It’s almost midnight.

We’re closed.

I give him some money. I don’t know how much. He leaves.

She says, You’re paying someone to stay with me?

I say, I want to stay.

The place is empty. The candles are out, except the one on our table. I pick up the fork and scoop some spaghetti.

She says, Eat. If you die now I’ll walk out. I won’t even turn to look.

Then I do something. I reach over and feed her. Just like that. She lets me. I pick up a napkin to wipe the sides of her mouth.

I see her face in the candle light. I pull my chair closer and take her hand. I go on holding her hand. Then I bring it close, let it rest on my cheek. I try to memorize this feeling. 

She says, Fine, guilty. I still wear the ring you gave me. But you can see it’s not on my ring finger, so technically it’s not a crime.

She says, Will you mind if I say something?

She says, Of course you won’t.

She says, Here’s what I want to say.

She says, I have a life, but I don’t know why, every night before I go to bed, I pray for you. Before I even pray for my own kids, my partner, I pray for you.

I peel her hand away from my cheek, hold it at the wrist and bring it back down with force. Her long, tender fingers slap me across my face. I do it again and again before she says, Are you mad?  

She says, It’s all fucking talk. Every woman talks. We need to, else we’d go crazy. Our brains would explode. It makes us feel better. You have a heart. I’ll grant you that. Not the best, but one that beats anyway. You were nice once, so there’s still potential. You don’t say things out loud, but I can tell it’s all there, the heap of it. Women think men are cruel for not speaking their mind. It’s an illness. We talk way too much. That’s an illness, also.

Then here’s what I do next. I slip my hand into my jacket’s pocket and reach for my fountain pen. The only pen I write with – black with a golden band on the cap, the one she gifted me. I lay the pen at her feet.

For a minute she’s still. Then she says, Idiot! What does this even mean? Come on, babe, let’s not be stupid here. It’s just seeing you all of a sudden. Like a beehive. You poke at it and it’s going to come at you. Pick up your pen.

I want you to have it.

This is foolish. If you leave the pen here with me you’ll keep thinking about it. Maybe you’ll stop writing, maybe, you’ll stop thinking about me, too.

She places the pen back into my pocket.

The waiter’s patience is one percent milk. Sir, please.

We walk towards the door.

She says, I can’t remember the last time we spent so much time together: no calls, no deadlines, no distractions.

She says, How does it matter now? Old news, right?

I open the door for her and the cold punches me. I feel like my organs might freeze. I remove my jacket for her, but she says no, but I hear in her voice the reason for this: she knows my balls are not built for cold weather.

We stand there. She has her arms around herself.

She says, It’s all good, okay? Let’s live our lives.

She says, If you write about today, I’d like to know. Send me an email. I’d like that. There are things even you can’t see at the moment, am I right?

Yes, I say, like always.

She says, I’m noticing some good changes here. Is it the wine talking?

I’m joking, she says.

She calls a cab. She looks at me, but when I don’t move a muscle, when I don’t even take my hands out of my pockets, she taps the driver’s shoulder. My heart breaks seeing her go.

I walk down the sidewalk, towards the waterfront. Cars line up either side of the street. There are these long shadows everywhere, trailing me. I can’t seem to get away. I see a hooker in her pink make-up. She lowers her leopard-print top when I come closer. I ask her to hold me.

She says, Fuck off, creep.

I say, I’m alright, don’t worry about me.

I say, When you haven’t done the right thing for so long, it’s hard.

I say, Talk to me, say something bad. I deserve it.

Fuck off.

Thank you.

The fuck’s matter with you? She says.

I don’t know, I say. I don’t know.