Yes, I’m playing ketchup. Oops, don’t tell fate.

Saturday Brunch Is A Thing

Nine months. That’s how long Joel and I have been seeing each other and by seeing, I mean “dating” like an old-fashioned couple. I think old-fashioned is cool.

He introduced me to Saturday brunch at a cafe a few miles out-of-town because, as he says, “Everyone does Sunday brunch. Let’s you and me be different.”

He orders us mimosas. He looks nervous. He’s going to propose.

I sip my mimosa to hide by jubilation.

He glances around as if he were looking for someone. Maybe he’s nervous about proposing in public.

“Cecelia, I need to tell you something,” he begins.

I lean forward. Inside I’m shouting, “Oh yes, yes, I’ll marry you!”

He winces when our eyes meet.

I sit back. Proposing shouldn’t cause someone to wince, right? I mean, shouldn’t he look, I don’t know, happy?

“I—” he begins again.

A scrawny, sour-faced woman appears next to the table. “I can’t believe you ordered mimosas. Are girlie drinks your liquid courage?”

“I told you I’d take care of it.”

I realize I’m the thing to be taken care of. This isn’t a proposal. It’s a termination. Who is this woman? I glance at her left hand where a huge diamond and a gold band glare. Wife.

Stupid, naïve fool. Saturday brunch isn’t a thing, I think, tears welling, as I hurry away. It’s called–lunch.

end

Sascha Darlington 4/16/18