The Date

The strangers approached the dimly lit restaurant almost in unison, barely aware that the other was near. It was the coldest night of the year, and a gust of wind pushed them from the freezing sidewalk into the entryway—as though neither of them truly wanted to step inside.

The atmosphere of the place was quite lovely: Couples, both young and old, laughing and chatting, their voices muffled by the hustle and bustle of the waiters, the clattering of forks against the china, and the clinking of glass wines slowly emptying out. A soft piano melody, barely audible in the background, peacefully filled the room.

The strangers took a seat opposite each other. The table—superbly set on a fine tablecloth—occupied the space between them. Their gazes remained blank, although the careful observer might have noticed the sliver of hope in her eyes. (It was small, but present.) Despite the cacophony of the place, they suddenly felt trapped by a deafening silence. They didn’t really know the person sitting across from them: What could they say? To talk about the menu seemed trivial; to talk about anything else seemed impossible.

Uneasy, he started tapping his right foot on the floor. He had a habit of doing this whenever he was anxious. Although she couldn’t see his limbs, she could tell he was doing so from the way his torso rhythmically rocked above the table. She hated it. She always had.

She tried to meet his eyes, to share a hint of a smile, but his gaze avoided her. He stared intently at the menu, although it would be a lie to say that he read a single word on it. When she finally chose to break the silence, the waiter interrupted the conversation before it could begin: It seemed important, to him, that they know the specials of the day and the wines he’d recommend. The man stopped tapping his foot, thanked the waiter, and informed him that they’d “just be having tea, thanks.”

The tone in his voice was calm. It was wild, how the most insignificant words could make his voice sound like a song. This (arguably irrelevant) trait had been one of the first things she noticed about him. His voice had become… addictive. From crude jokes to reflections on life, she just wanted to hear him speak. Yet the years had made his voice—and hers—softer. Quieter. Now, both middle-aged, they spoke less. Maybe they had less to say; maybe they were less willing to say it.

The waiter walked away, and the silence grew stronger. They were here to have a conversation. One of them needed to initiate it, and she could tell it would be her. After all, the initiative to go out had been his. And what a surprise that was! She longed to go back to the days when he would plan things—outings, road trips, movies, dinners, walks in the park. So, naturally, her face lit up when, out of nowhere, she heard the words: “Let’s go to that restaurant you like; the one in Crown Heights.” The element of surprise had shaken her a bit—in a good way, of course. She had been hoping for a miracle like this: A date, finally—after all these years of… emptiness. Maybe the magic wasn’t lost after all.

This is why her stomach dropped when he one-handedly decided, for both of them, that they’d “just be having tea.” She had imagined a meal. She’d even considered the possibility of laughing with him over wine once again, like they once did. But tea was a start—wasn’t it? After all, he had asked her here. He had remembered how much she enjoyed this place.

“It’s been a while since we’ve had tea together,” she felt the words escape her mouth. Truth be told, it had been a while since they had done anything together. Thirty years ago, their conversation would have taken place against a backdrop of kisses, hugs, and incessant laughter. By a naive but welcome bliss. This restaurant had seen them like this many times before. But that was then. Now, sharing the same table, they could barely recognize each other.

His gaze remained elusive; the idea of making eye contact was eating him alive. Yet he knew that he needed to look her in the eyes. He was saved by the waiter, who promptly came back and cleared the dinnerware that had been so beautifully set. The all-consuming silence continued to grow, and he continued to evade her eyes. The waiter set down two steaming cups of tea on saucers, a container with sugar cubes, and walked away.

Needing a way to pass the endless time somehow, they brought their cups to their lips and tried to sip their infusions. It’s easier, after all, to swallow a drink than one’s words. But it was no use; they only burned their tongues. Setting down their tea, they sat in the tension that enveloped them. And, despite their best efforts at avoidance, their eyes met for a split second.

Looking into his eyes, the life they had built together suddenly flashed before hers like in a reel suspended in mid-air: The moment they met, their first kiss, their first home. The first pregnancy. The first miscarriage. And the second. And the third. The moments they had yearned for, that never came. The hope, and the disillusion. And in spite of it all, they lasted this long. She wasn’t ready to let him go. She would never be ready to let him go. He may have sensed this, for he finally spoke, interrupting words she had not uttered in years:

“I love y—” 

“I want a divorce.”

No preambles, no build-up. Just a statement. A fact. Not so different from an order at a restaurant: Tea and a divorce, please.

She looked at him blankly, her last sentence forever suspended in mid-air. 

It would not be accurate to say that she didn’t see it coming—that a part of her did not at least consider this ending. Truth be told, she came close to uttering the same sentence on more than one occasion. She wasn’t sure what had stopped her from doing it. Hope was an inherent part of her person, and she clung to it as though it could save her marriage. She did love him, after all.

Which is why now, facing his tired eyes, she struggled to know what to say. Where had the last thirty years gone? Was that it? Was it worth fighting for? Or was it simply best to accept what was, what had been, and what no longer could be?

They continued to sit across from each other, as they had done so many times before. Only this time, there was no hand-holding. No backdrop of kisses or hugs. Certainly no laughter.

She knew this was a done decision; she didn’t have it in her to argue, to ask why, to hold onto something she should have let go years ago. She simply stared at him. She didn’t know it, but she was slowly nodding. She understood.

Some more time went by, though not much more was said. The two strangers, once fierce lovers, left together. Behind them, two cold, full cups of tea waited, never to be drunk, amidst the hustle and bustle of the waiters, the clattering of forks against the china, and the clinking of glass wines slowly emptying out. A soft piano melody, barely audible in the background, peacefully filled the room as couples, young and old, laughed and chatted. ⬛