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Authors: Sian Griffiths
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myself. It wasn’t him . My Dave wouldn’t dole out an allowance. He’d have no patience for a woman who would expect one. My Dave wouldn’t have left books and school and all he loved— he wouldn’t work construction for a woman like Jenny.
Russ and Dawn were waiting for a table. In the dim light of the vestibule, Dawn’s hair was a stiff blonde cloud, with the lights from the restaurant illuminating her hairspray to a tangle of silver lining. Russ’s crew cut stood in salute. The style suited his broad, smiling face. He’d look the same at sixty as he did now. A little greyer perhaps, more sun-lined, but his denim work shirt would always drape the same broad, sturdy shoulders. His eyes, the same shade as the denim of his shirt, would always shine with laughter. Russ was an immutable force of nature. Time didn’t touch him.
Jenny and Dave—her Dave, my Dave—arrived, diving together through the thin drizzle under an old letterman jacket that Dave held to shield them. The hostess called us to our table. They’d been laughing at a shared joke when he saw me. Jenny, slightly in front, didn’t see him go dumbstruck, but once we were at the table, her eyes never left him. “Dave,” she nudged him, her gaze puppy-like with the sick adoration of a love-struck woman, “these are the girls from the barn.”
He gave a weak smile. “She never mentioned your names,” he said, as if Jenny weren’t standing right next to him. “You were always just, ‘the girls at the barn.’”
“Well, she talks about you all the time,” said Dawn, causing Dave to look right at me, his eyes trying to plumb mine.
“But until today you were just, ‘my husband,’” I added.
“That’s not true. I said your names,” Jenny said, her southern accent thick and sweet as honey.
Dave hung his jacket on the seatback and sat directly across from me, his toe brushing mine under the table as he pulled in his chair. Not a quick, accidental touch either, but a long, slow slide, making my breath catch. That settled it: I’d be getting drunk that night. My fingers gripped the side of the table. Dave was still looking at me. In my confusion, I’d dropped my guard.
Mariachi music pumped from the speaker above our table. The waitress came, a short woman who would have been slender except for her large, pregnant belly. Jenny asked for a pitcher, and I ordered a margarita with a double shot. Dawn’s “yahoo” in response to my drink order turned heads at nearby tables; Dave’s face broke into a wide grin. “Have you and Joannie known each other for long?”
No one had introduced us by name yet, but I was the only one who noticed that Dave used mine. Dawn said we’d met years ago when Foxy and I first came to Connie’s. “She was so quiet and, what with her riding English and all, at first I thought she was a spoiled bitch.” Dawn smiled lovingly at me. “Just goes to show, first impressions are always right.”
I blew her a kiss. “Thanks, Love.”
“You bet.”
Dave’s foot traveled up the inside of my calf. I faltered only a moment before drawing my legs well underneath me. He was being too obvious, but Jenny was clueless. “I told you these girls were funny.” She put her arm on the jacket that hung on Dave’s chair, droplets still shimmering in its burgundy-colored wool.
My margarita arrived, and I drank while she rubbed Dave’s shoulder. She leaned into him and kissed his cheek. I flagged down the waitress to order another before this one ran out. My bed was empty, but an empty bed can be all the loving arms a drunk woman needs, and I loved the way margaritas felt on the back of the throat, the way they scratched at places otherwise untouchable.
I don’t remember who started talking about the subject of regrets, but the subject itself arose from my drink order: stories of worst hangovers leading us naturally to regret. It became a sort of party game; everyone going in turn.
Dawn began with the story of an
Russ and Dawn were waiting for a table. In the dim light of the vestibule, Dawn’s hair was a stiff blonde cloud, with the lights from the restaurant illuminating her hairspray to a tangle of silver lining. Russ’s crew cut stood in salute. The style suited his broad, smiling face. He’d look the same at sixty as he did now. A little greyer perhaps, more sun-lined, but his denim work shirt would always drape the same broad, sturdy shoulders. His eyes, the same shade as the denim of his shirt, would always shine with laughter. Russ was an immutable force of nature. Time didn’t touch him.
Jenny and Dave—her Dave, my Dave—arrived, diving together through the thin drizzle under an old letterman jacket that Dave held to shield them. The hostess called us to our table. They’d been laughing at a shared joke when he saw me. Jenny, slightly in front, didn’t see him go dumbstruck, but once we were at the table, her eyes never left him. “Dave,” she nudged him, her gaze puppy-like with the sick adoration of a love-struck woman, “these are the girls from the barn.”
He gave a weak smile. “She never mentioned your names,” he said, as if Jenny weren’t standing right next to him. “You were always just, ‘the girls at the barn.’”
“Well, she talks about you all the time,” said Dawn, causing Dave to look right at me, his eyes trying to plumb mine.
“But until today you were just, ‘my husband,’” I added.
“That’s not true. I said your names,” Jenny said, her southern accent thick and sweet as honey.
Dave hung his jacket on the seatback and sat directly across from me, his toe brushing mine under the table as he pulled in his chair. Not a quick, accidental touch either, but a long, slow slide, making my breath catch. That settled it: I’d be getting drunk that night. My fingers gripped the side of the table. Dave was still looking at me. In my confusion, I’d dropped my guard.
Mariachi music pumped from the speaker above our table. The waitress came, a short woman who would have been slender except for her large, pregnant belly. Jenny asked for a pitcher, and I ordered a margarita with a double shot. Dawn’s “yahoo” in response to my drink order turned heads at nearby tables; Dave’s face broke into a wide grin. “Have you and Joannie known each other for long?”
No one had introduced us by name yet, but I was the only one who noticed that Dave used mine. Dawn said we’d met years ago when Foxy and I first came to Connie’s. “She was so quiet and, what with her riding English and all, at first I thought she was a spoiled bitch.” Dawn smiled lovingly at me. “Just goes to show, first impressions are always right.”
I blew her a kiss. “Thanks, Love.”
“You bet.”
Dave’s foot traveled up the inside of my calf. I faltered only a moment before drawing my legs well underneath me. He was being too obvious, but Jenny was clueless. “I told you these girls were funny.” She put her arm on the jacket that hung on Dave’s chair, droplets still shimmering in its burgundy-colored wool.
My margarita arrived, and I drank while she rubbed Dave’s shoulder. She leaned into him and kissed his cheek. I flagged down the waitress to order another before this one ran out. My bed was empty, but an empty bed can be all the loving arms a drunk woman needs, and I loved the way margaritas felt on the back of the throat, the way they scratched at places otherwise untouchable.
I don’t remember who started talking about the subject of regrets, but the subject itself arose from my drink order: stories of worst hangovers leading us naturally to regret. It became a sort of party game; everyone going in turn.
Dawn began with the story of an
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