The Anniversary

The waitress led us on a path through the tables of people dining at this late hour. The sky was just about dark, and the outdoor ambiance of the restaurant was lovely and a bit quaint. Lights lined the canopies that covered both chairs and tables. Most were meant for two. Brick path was a nice touch. Still, I could only focus on her. As we neared the little pavilion, I began to realize that this was our seat. It seemed like I planned it. After all, she hadn't known I made this reservation. The small gazebo with a round table, chairs surrounding it was just a step of elevation from the path. My dress shoes were quite comfortable as I did so, holding her hand as we stepped up and took our seats. We got our menus and selected our drinks.

Her hair was up, her outfit picked perfectly for this occasion. This reservation seemed better than I expected at first. We were even given a little card. On the front it read the restaurant's name. Inside was a simple “Happy Anniversary!” note. I can still visualize it clearly. She smiled slightly. I loved her smile. She was gorgeous. As she always was. Admiring her smooth, freckled skin and full lips—every time I looked at her, I fell in love all over again.

When the waitress came back, we discussed our options and ordered. We admired together the romantic atmosphere this restaurant had. I hadn't expected this atmosphere myself. I had only seen images, which almost portrayed a whole different restaurant. They say the night changes perspective. The air was a touch chilly for her at this hour on December 5th in her thin dress, so I stayed close to try to keep her warm.

The air seemed to sparkle when we got our appetizers. We ate and spoke about the food. We acted as if we were food critics. We’d watched a lot of Hell’s Kitchen, so I suppose we knew a bit. Despite the banter, there was an undertone of tension that hampered the flow of conversation. I ignored it, thinking it would sort out itself. Still, the happiness and love I felt for her was real and on the verge of overwhelm, like it was most of the time. Her presence always lifted my spirits. Even in dark times.

As we finished our appetizers, we took turns finding and using the bathroom. Gentlemen first--to find the way, of course. I smiled as the waitress arrived with our entrées. I ordered a beef wellington, and she ordered a lamb rack. Like I said, we’d watched a lot of Hell’s Kitchen. The food turned out to not be as good as we expected. Despite the glitz of the restaurant, the food just wasn't for us. Still, we ate. It gave us something to talk about.

The waitress came walking toward us again. Everything blurred. My vision spun, and I closed my eyes. I was remembering this.

It wasn't the waitress this time.

It was her. The night sky and romantic gazebo was gone, replaced by an off-white popcorn ceiling and walls, and I was sitting in my torn office chair in the small 10x10 room. At my desk. She was yelling from the doorway.

I didn’t care enough. She wanted me to just care. She didn’t want to leave things cold. She wanted warmth. I did too. But at what cost?

I didn’t shout. I tried not to speak, for any word that left my mouth would bring tears alongside it. They threatened to spill over at any moment.

I tried to leave, but she blocked the door. Eventually, she gave up and slumped. I stepped over her. We were both crying.

For the last couple of days, I caved to what she wanted. We hugged. We cuddled.

But it was still the end.

And we knew it was for the best.

Despite everything, it turned out to be not for us.

Still, I wished the Raintree Restaurant was forever.