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.
Sascha Darlington 4/16/18