{"id":3183,"date":"2019-09-16T08:30:18","date_gmt":"2019-09-16T15:30:18","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/underthetablebooks.com\/blog\/?p=3183"},"modified":"2019-09-16T09:09:15","modified_gmt":"2019-09-16T16:09:15","slug":"we-might-be-friends","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/underthetablebooks.com\/blog\/archives\/3183","title":{"rendered":"We Might Be Friends"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"end<\/a><\/p>\n

Volume of Greenstreet<\/em><\/a> photo by Todd<\/p>\n

Paul Windsor, late fifties, bespectacled, his longish gray hair turning white, is sitting at his customary corner table in Mona\u2019s<\/i>, the one and only bakery\/caf\u00e9 in Carmeline Creek, a small town on the far north coast of California.<\/p>\n

Something causes him to look up from reading Kate Greenstreet\u2019s The End of Something,<\/i> and his eyes are drawn to the woman with silvery hair who just took her place at the end of the short line of customers. He wonders what made him look up from the poem he was reading. Was it the words I thought we might be friends <\/i>or something about this woman at the end of the line? Or both.<\/p>\n

Paul\u2019s wife Elisha, her long reddish brown hair in a ponytail, and Alexandra, Paul and Elisha\u2019s seventeen-year-old daughter, her shoulder-length reddish brown hair tinted with purple, are working behind the counter, both of them wearing white dress shirts and black jeans; and this woman at the end of the line is wearing a long gray skirt and a peach-colored sweater.<\/p>\n

He can only see the woman\u2019s backside, but her posture and shape are familiar to him, and when she looks to her right and he glimpses her profile, he realizes this is Maureen, his first wife whom he hasn\u2019t seen or heard from in thirty-two years.<\/p>\n

His immediate impulse is to sneak out of the caf\u00e9 before Maureen can recognize him, but the impulse passes and he closes his eyes and remembers the moment he met her\u2014the opening night of a group show at the Hawkins Gallery in San Jose. His friend George had four paintings in the show and Paul was there out of loyalty to George. Maureen was gallery hopping with her friend Lisa who knew George and came to give George a congratulatory hug. George introduced Lisa to Paul, and Lisa gave Paul a hug, too. Then Lisa said, \u201cThis is my amazing friend Maureen,\u201d and Paul and asked, \u201cWhat\u2019s so amazing about you?\u201d And Maureen said, \u201cTake me home and I\u2019ll show you.\u201d<\/p>\n

Paul opens his eyes and sees Maureen at the counter talking to Elisha; and he feels gut punched, which is how he felt every time Maureen confessed her latest infidelity to him. They married a month after they met, separated after a year, divorced a few months after that.<\/p>\n

Maureen pays for her bag of pastries and turns to leave; and Paul sees her face clearly for the first time and realizes this is not Maureen.<\/p>\n

He puts down The End of Something<\/i>, opens his notebook, and writes Maureen was constantly unfaithful because deceiving me made life more exciting for her. She never expressed the slightest interest in my writing or music, yet I invited her to live with me, married her, went deep into debt buying her a new car and expensive clothing and taking her out to trendy restaurants. Why did I do that when I knew from the beginning she cared nothing for me? Was it because she was beautiful and I never thought a beautiful woman would ever want to be with me?<\/i><\/p>\n

The caf\u00e9 door opens and the woman who is not Maureen enters again. She buys a cup of coffee and a cinnamon swirl and looks for a place to sit\u2014all the seats taken except one at Paul\u2019s table.<\/p>\n

\u201cWould you mind if I sit with you?\u201d she asks, her voice identical to Maureen\u2019s voice.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, please,\u201d he says, thinking maybe this is Maureen transformed by thirty more years of life.<\/i><\/p>\n

\u201cThank you,\u201d she says, sitting down with a weary sigh. \u201cI tried to get my daughter and her friend to come in, but they have no interest in leaving the car.\u201d She shrugs. \u201cWe\u2019re driving to Portland via the coast because it\u2019s so beautiful, right? But they won\u2019t get out of the fucking car. Pardon my French.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow old is your daughter?\u201d asks Paul, imagining a surly teenager.<\/p>\n

\u201cThirty,\u201d says the woman, nodding dolefully. \u201cGoing on twelve. My fault. Should have kicked her out long ago, but\u2026\u201d She glances at The End of Something<\/i>. \u201cThat any good? Mystery?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cPoetry,\u201d says Paul, certain now the woman is not Maureen.<\/p>\n

\u201cWow,\u201d says the woman, wistfully. \u201cPoetry. Boy does that take me back.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTo where and when?\u201d asks Paul, wondering why he thought this woman was Maureen, when she is nothing like Maureen.<\/p>\n

\u201cTo Santa Cruz a million years ago when I used to get really stoned and read Emily Dickinson.\u201d She smiles, remembering. \u201cHeaven.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWould you like me to read you one of these poems?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHere?\u201d she says, glancing around the room. \u201cNow?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah,\u201d says Paul, laughing. \u201cMy wife is the manager and she encourages the out-loud reading of poetry.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay,\u201d says the woman, blushing. \u201cBut tell me your name first.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cPaul Windsor,\u201d he says, loving that she blushed at the thought of being read to by a stranger in a caf\u00e9. \u201cWhat\u2019s your<\/i> name?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cVictoria,\u201d she says, taking off her sweater and revealing a shimmering sleeveless red shirt and tattooed arms\u2014mermaids and unicorns\u2014and a necklace of turquoise stones.<\/p>\n

\u201cI did not expect tattoos,\u201d says Paul, gazing in wonder at her.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh I used to be a super hippy,\u201d she says, remembering those halcyon days. \u201cBefore I got pregnant and had to get real.\u201d She winks at him. \u201cYou<\/i> know what I mean.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNot sure I do,\u201d he says, imagining her as a young woman smoking a joint and reading Emily Dickinson, the words amazing her.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, you do,\u201d she says, bitterly. \u201cTo pay the bills. When mommy and daddy wouldn\u2019t anymore. Right?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cRight,\u201d he says, nodding. \u201cI see what you mean.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIs the poem sad?\u201d she asks, biting her lower lip. \u201cThe one you want to read me?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d he says, opening the book. \u201cNot sad.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u2206<\/p>\n

69. BLACK SNOW<\/p>\n

I thought we might be friends. Or we were friends but<\/p>\n

who we turned out to be was disappointing.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

She walks to the corner of the field. One of those cold<\/p>\n

bright days you remember from childhood.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The past, nothing.<\/p>\n

New people, nothing.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

She sees him but she doesn\u2019t know him.<\/p>\n

She\u2019s wearing his coat.<\/p>\n

\u2206<\/p>\n

Victoria purses her lips and says, \u201cI like that poem.\u201d She sighs. \u201cA lot. Would you read it again, please?\u201d<\/p>\n

He reads the poem again, slower this time.<\/p>\n

She nods. \u201cI feel like that all the time now. Like I\u2019m outside what\u2019s going on. Like when I\u2019m driving my daughter and her friend and they\u2019re plugged into their phones and I look out at the hills and the sky and the clouds and the ocean and I think how beautiful it is, and they\u2019re not even aware of it, and I\u2019m just driving through it, driving them through it to some motel on the way to some hotel in Portland where they\u2019ll go to some dance club and take Ecstasy and then we\u2019ll drive back to Palo Alto the fast ugly way. For what? Like the poem says. The past, nothing. New people, nothing. Why do I live like this? It\u2019s like I\u2019m only half-alive. I should sell everything and get a place around here. Near the wild ocean. Have a garden and a cat and volunteer somewhere. Help people. I\u2019ve got enough money. Let my daughter take care of herself, though I don\u2019t think she can.\u201d<\/p>\n

A silence falls between them.<\/p>\n

Victoria tears off a big chunk of her cinnamon swirl, dips the chunk in her coffee, and puts the drenched chunk in her mouth, her eyelids fluttering with pleasure at the marriage of bitter and sweet.<\/p>\n

fin<\/p>\n

Kate Greenstreet reading her poem<\/i> 69. Black Snow<\/a><\/p>\n

Todd reading his poem<\/i> Why Now?<\/a><\/i><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Volume of Greenstreet photo by Todd Paul Windsor, late fifties, bespectacled, his longish gray hair turning white, is sitting at his customary corner table in Mona\u2019s, the one and only bakery\/caf\u00e9 in Carmeline Creek, a small town on the far north coast of California. Something causes him to look up from reading Kate Greenstreet\u2019s The […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[5619,5470,5467,5468,799,5622,5625,1970,5623,5538,76,51,5621,5620,4505,5624,9,33,5618,5617],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/underthetablebooks.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3183"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/underthetablebooks.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/underthetablebooks.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underthetablebooks.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underthetablebooks.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=3183"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/underthetablebooks.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3183\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3187,"href":"https:\/\/underthetablebooks.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3183\/revisions\/3187"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/underthetablebooks.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=3183"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underthetablebooks.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=3183"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underthetablebooks.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=3183"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}