Between Octobers

October 10th (Continued)

 . . . (Still at the Science Museum)

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His gaze shifted to the left. “You see those girls over there?” He gingerly raised one finger set in the general direction. “Don’t look.”

“How am I supposed to see?”

He indicated with a slight tilting of his head. “Be casual about it.” I turned again and he scoffed, “Oh, that really needs work.”

Decidedly ignoring the superior criticism, I caught a glimpse of the intended group—there was at least five. All around thirteen, maybe fifteen—and turned back. “I’m no good at stealth?” 

His corresponding smile was short-lived. “If any of them recognize me, we have to leave. Experience with that age group tells me one or two may be fine for about five minutes. Any more than that and things get quite hairy, very quickly, and I don’t have security with me. Even if they’re civil, they text like mad and before you know it, the place is crawling with maniacal pubescents.”

“Maniacal?”

“Frothing at the mouth.”

“The distance from abashed to boastful is very short, indeed.”

He raised one eyebrow.

The server interrupted with our food and asked Evan to sign a paper menu. He complied, thanking her again in a way that politely closed the possibility of further interruption. She scurried off to her work station but did not look away.

I bowed my head and closed my eyes for a split-second and Evan was almost finished with his burger. As soon as the first bite of salad was in my mouth, he asked a question.

“Where’s your husband?” I noticed his gaze was fixed on my naked finger.

I felt the oppressive weight of the past year come over me and struggled to chew. “He died.”

 “How?” The question bounced out.  

“Car accident—one year ago, today.”

“I assumed you were divorced. I should have guessed. It’s obvious.”

I acknowledged with a nod before I really heard. “Wait, what’s obvious?”

“The dearth,” he smiled gently. “It’s in your eyes and on your shoulders.” He gestured to my slumping posture. “I know how heavy it can be. My mother died when I was sixteen—cancer.” He looked down at his plate.

What followed was silent understanding. We were reluctant members of a survivors club. Eventually, the understanding built into another conversation. I talked about my love of nursing, and my boys when he asked. Evan wondered why I drove a car older than he was.

“The eighty-six is a classic,” I teased, and then gave the truth. “It was Sol’s first car and I can’t bring myself to get rid of it. Maybe Noah will get it one day.”

Evan kept track of everyone—the nervous behavior became progressively evident as we ate. When I took a swig of water, his head snapped from one side to the other before turning to me.

“Are you finished?”

I set my fork down. “Do you want to leave?”

He smiled in a soft, strange way. “We’re toast, dear.”

He tapped the table with a pointed finger—my silent instruction to search. I turned my eyes towards the same group he referred to earlier. Instead of them talking casually amongst themselves like before, their faces were all keyed up. Some were whispering, while others held their phones in our direction. Two of the young girls were very clearly making plans and dialing. Calling their friends, just like he’d said they would. A third looked to be texting. A few started to approach, then others filed in behind. The group had tripled in size, with more coming into view from around a corner—all frantically looking around until their eyes landed on him. My stomach plunged, seeing the voracious airs of hunger. He was toast.