The Man in the Cafe

Sarah stood in front of the bathroom sink, becoming more anxious with each passing moment. With her toothbrush in one hand and her toothpaste in the other, she stood frozen, trying to decide if she should really be doing this. Her mind was a battlefield, half of it calling her a slut or a whore. The other half was telling her that she deserved this; that it's been so long since she's been on a real date. His words ran through her head once more, not that it helped her feel more confident about going.

It doesn't have to lead to anything. Just let me treat you to a nice dinner. I know it's been a long time since you've enjoyed a night out.

Even though he said he wasn't expecting anything tonight, Sarah knew he was still hopeful that something would happen. And after all this time, she couldn't deny the possibility that something could happen between them.

Mechanically, she put a bit of toothpaste onto the toothbrush and lifted it up to her mouth. Once she finished, Sarah slipped on her favorite heels and stood once more in front of the mirror. The last time she wore this dress, she'd been going out on a date for the first time with her husband. She found it ironic that she was wearing it again to go on a date with another man.

She walked down the stairs, remembering the times she and her husband would go out on a date and he would be waiting for her to be ready. Whenever she appeared at the top of the stairs, his eyes would go wide and he'd get this huge smile on his face as if he were the luckiest man on earth. As she stopped at the top of the stairs tonight, she hoped he'd be there now, though she quickly remembered that if he were still doing things like that she wouldn't be going out on a date with another man.

Once at the bottom of the stairs, Sarah turned towards the hallway instead of towards the front door. The hallway lead to the entertainment room. Every day she stopped by there, always hoping that something would be different. Her hope today was stronger than usual, because any change would stop her from going out on this date. As always, her heart fell as soon as she opened the door.

Her husband was there, sitting in his dark red leather recliner. He didn't move when she opened the door. He didn't turn to say hi to her or even acknowledge that she was there. He never does. For the last year, she hasn't heard him say more than five words at a time. Usually, it's to ask for something to drink or something similar.

"I'm going out with some friends for the evening. I'll probably be back late," she told him. No response. She turned around, shutting the door behind her. Some days she wondered why she goes in there at all.

He wasn't always like this. For the first two years of our relationship, she wouldn't have hesitated to say things were perfect. He was a professional football player; she was a surgeon who'd just finished her residency. They lived in New York, and the excitement never stopped at the hospital for her. She was always going, usually not able to take a break. He'd been just one of many patients the day he came in with a dislocated shoulder. Yet, he was so different from any other patient. She made a bold move and gave him her number before he was discharged. Sure, she said it was for "any problems with his shoulder" but they both knew that wasn't the real reason.

A year later they got engaged, and the wedding came shortly after that. Despite their busy schedules, they always made time for each other. She'd come home and he always tried to have dinner on the table for her. She always made sure to go to his games whenever she could, even if she had no idea what was going on the entire time.

The day of his accident she was working at the hospital. She hadn't been able to go to his game this time, but she knew she'd hear all about it that evening. She remembered being called down for what she'd thought was a consult at the time. The moment she walked into the room, however, she knew that she wouldn't be the doctor for this patient. Her husband was lying in the center of the room on a gurney, clutching his knee in pain with one hand. The other hand was lying by his side, swollen and bruised up.