Why We Plan for the Future (fiction excerpt)

Something about the angle of his eyes. Or the angle of the lights, dimmed and reddened as they were in the coffee shop that evening. Linelle wasn’t sure what to make of the man at the other end of the table; he was quick to talk about himself but strange in what he chose to say; “I don’t talk about certain things,” he said sharply, “I don’t talk about my past relationships,” (he ticked them off on his fingers), “my time in the army, or my connection with my family.” What else was there to talk of? You’d think he’d ask her more questions. After all she was the one still only twenty (well, she was really nineteen but she told him twenty). Later, Linelle couldn’t recall him asking her any questions. It was three months later, back at the same coffee shop, that he finally had a bunch of questions to ask.
“Can I get you another coffee, lady?”
“No thanks, I’m good.”
“Was work alright?”
“It was fine.”
“Have you talked to your folks lately?” He was reaching for her hand. He was always reaching for her hand these days.
“I’ll probably call them this weekend. Why, you talked to yours lately?”
“Now it’s not a time to joke, ya know, lady.” He let go of her hand.
It was still light out and a glowing beam sneaked through the blinds to strike Linelle in the eyes; she thought of asking him to close the shades but she didn’t.
She watched his face as he looked around the café, hesitating on an older woman sunk in a plush red sofa, eating her whipped cream straight off the top of her mocha cup. He sighed and Linelle knew he wanted to go smoke a cigarette.
“I know you’re not sure yet, but in the end the decision is yours, I can’t force you one way or another.” He was looking her in the face now.
Her mouth was dry. Maybe it was the chocolate chip muffin she had eaten.
He started tapping his foot. A moment later he slipped out his lighter and said he’d be right back.
She watched him smoke through the glass window behind the whipped-cream-eating woman. Linelle could remember their conversation in the coffee shop the first time they sat to “talk things over.” He had smelled strongly of cigarette smoke and cologne; she remembered breathing it in when he stepped too close to her, not looking down at her face, but browsing the art on the walls. “Now help me understand,” he had said calmly, “This painting is marked 1000. Is that its price?” She replied that she figured so but she was mostly preoccupied with whether or not to take a step back from him. She finally did, but then took a step forward again on afterthought. She didn’t want him thinking his age bothered her.
“Whatcha thinking about, lady?”
Linelle looked up; he was back, sitting down, that cologne-cigarette smell more powerful than ever.
“I dunno,” she said absentmindedly. “What to do, I guess.”
He sat up straighter in his chair. She hoped he wasn’t going to try to take her hand again.
“Like I said,” (she winced inwardly as he took her hand from its place behind the napkins), “You wouldn’t have to visit. No obligations. I’d never ask for money. I know you’re a young one and are probably all worried about your future and everything, college and whatnot—”
“I’m graduating before you are.” Her voice was dull.
He petted her hand in his. His fingertips were rough, callused. Her hands sweated.
“Okay,” he said. “Lady, just listen. It’s just an option. We needn’t even talk again. I mean, we both know we’re not going to talk again. I’ll let you alone, it’d be like nothing ever happened. You could go on with your life, either way.”
There was something about his eyes, though; they looked kind enough from where he sat across from her, but by this point she would rather look away. All those dinners she had looked across to him, catching his eye during meetings, staring into his face in the dark before going to sleep. She busied herself by mixing her coffee, decaf today; cutting out caffeine was something to get used to.
“I know I don’t have an obligation to visit or be involved,” she said to the table simply. But she knew he was watching her stir her drink. Linelle hadn’t forgotten that evening at the café when he told and did not tell her about himself. Relating broken details of his time in Europe, his divorces, how his most recent ex wife took all his wine glasses: “You should come over for a drink but oh, I should probably buy us wine glasses, the ex took them all.” She hadn’t forgotten the babies, either. One falsely claimed to be his, another one born dead. She stopped stirring her coffee, watching the milky liquid swish to a halt. She didn’t want to look into his eyes.
“I’m growing old. You wouldn’t have to do anything. I would hire a nanny. You know I’d make a good father. Our son would be safe and well cared for. He’ll grow up disciplined and educated. But I understand this is your thing. You do whatever you want.”



Published in the Sandy River Review spring 2011 issue

© Kate Chianese 2011