WHO?
A Valentine’s day story.
Seven P.M. Raining hard. Valentine’s Day. Chris had forgotten to make a dinner reservation.
He got off work about 7:15, left his suit jacket in the office, turned off the lights, put on a raincoat as he walked out the door. Outside, it was raining so hard you couldn’t even see the bakery across the street. Just white, cold rain and the mist rolling in from the mountains. Chris got in his car; it sputtered once, twice. Turned over. He left behind an empty parking lot underneath the office buildings.
The apartment was dark inside. And cold.
“Isabela?” For a moment, no answer. Then, all at once, the lights came on. She came around the corner.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, baby.” She had some sort of elaborate red dress on, two large hoop earrings, lips painted ruby red. This was the exact moment Chris realized he had forgotten to make a dinner reservation.
“Damn,” he said and half-smiled. “You look incredible.”
She smiled at him and walked over, put her arms around his waist, stayed there for a while.
“I’ll just wait out here in the living room,” she said. “Go and get ready. And hurry.” Chris walked out of the room and went for the bedroom. “Oh,” she called out from the living room, “what time did you make the reservation for? I won’t ask where.”
Chris did not say anything. The bedroom was alleyway-black and cold; the bed unmade and smelling of cheap perfume. He took a moment in front of the mirror in the bathroom. He couldn’t do this two years in a row, he knew. He’d have to figure something out. He would; he always figured things out. He put on a couple of socks. They did not match, but they’d be hidden under his pants anyway. Brown pants, a denim-blue suit jacket, an old dress shirt. The stains could hide underneath the suit jacket.
“Baby,” she called again from the living room. “You ready? I’m hungry as hell. Sooner we eat, sooner we can get back here.” Chris pulled on his nice dress shoes— after a quick-and-dirty polish—and walked back into the living room.
“How do I look?
* * *
On the street, they huddled tight underneath the umbrella. It was all dark, except for the streetlamps and Isabela’s dress.
“You gonna tell me where we’re headed yet?” They were crossing the bridge over the river, towards the edge of the city.
“Maybe,” Chris said, “just wait. Almost there, yeah?”
There was no space inside the French place. “I had a reservation for 8:15,” Chris tried telling them. But it was Valentine’s Day. No extra space, and if you weren’t on the list, no matter what you said or thought, you weren’t getting in.
Outside again, in the cold. Chris looked over at Isabela. He thought she might be crying. He grabbed her hand. It felt a long ways away.
“Why don’t we walk a little,” Chris said. “See if there isn’t anything else nearby. Come on – a little romantic walk in the rain under my old umbrella, on Valentine’s Day? This is the stuff of movies, you know.” He smiled at her.
Far past the bridge, on the edge of town, they came to a small bar next to a barbershop. Chris used to be a regular here back in college, when he and the buddies used to visit after long Friday nights for a couple last drinks to round out the night. To Chris’s pleasant surprise, the bar was mostly full.
“Here?” Chris said and smiled. Isabela just looked at him. The two of them went inside.
Four hours later, Chris was slurring his words.
“Song rec?” asked Jake from behind the bar.
“Fuck, I don’t know,” said Chris. “Hey, what do you think?” He looked around. “Wait, where’s Izzy?” He was asking Jake.
“Who?”
“Forget it. Put on, wait a minute…” he thought very hard. “How about Anemone? Brian Jonestown Massacre song.”
“You’ve always had weird taste, Chris. OK.”
Jake turned the volume up all the way. Chris downed a couple more shots of something. The lights were getting blurry.
“So, what are you up to these days, man?” asked Jake. “Last I heard you were backpacking across Southeast Asia or some shit.”
Chris was staring at something across the room. “Do you see that?” he said.
“See what?”
“Right next to the bathroom door. It’s a… I don’t know. You know, one of those…”
“Chris, what are you saying? I’m not as drunk as you. Anyway, it’s 4 in the morning. We should be getting you home, yeah?
Jake helped Chris to the door of the bar. Jake said, “And why are you wearing your business suit, Chris? Didn’t want something a little more casual for this place? It’s a goddamn dive bar.”
Chris stared at something inside the bar.
“Isabela,” he said loudly. “Jake, go get her, will you?”
“Who?” Jake said. “Chris, go home, man. See you around.”
Chris looked down at his work shoes, and he began to walk home in the rain. On the bridge, he thought he saw something – a flash of red, maybe – move in the dark. In the water. He stopped, waiting for it to move again. It did not.
He waited.