17

It was the evening to see the Beethoven concert at the Orpheum. He arrived at her place before 6 PM. “We’re friends today, so I can’t kiss you,” he reminded her.

She grimaced but was in agreement. Her eyes fell to his shoes. “Niice.” she said. He had worn his tan Florsheim brogue dress shoes with leather soles, fancy and classic. “I was wondering what shoes I should wear?” she said, indicating a black dressy pair that she’d pulled out. “These are nice but not very comfortable, we’re going to walk partway, right?”

They were going to the symphony. He looked at the time. “Mm, yeah, we can. Wear what’s comfortable.”

“I like these, but I think they’re going to bother my back.”

“Definitely wear what’s comfortable.”

“Well, that’s my sneakers, I don’t know.” The white sneakers with the hot green stripe.

“Definitely be comfortable,” he said with more reassurance, aware it was partly for his own sake.

She slipped on the sneakers.

They set off walking at a good pace. If they kept it up, they could make the whole distance to the Orpheum, and why not on such a lovely evening? Heavy yellow rays alighted the full bloom of mid-June. People waited all year for evenings like this and wore blissful smiles. After a few blocks, he felt the onset of a blister and told her so. They had broken a sweat and were getting short on time. Traffic was dense and crawled along the main streets. He hadn’t anticipated that, it was a Wednesday, after all. Another layer of sweat surfaced as he thought about what to do. If he called an Uber, they would have to stop, wait for it, then sit in traffic. On foot, they might do better, but it started to feel like a blowtorch on his lower ankle. He had to limp.

“I’ve never walked this far in these,” he explained.

She chuckled.

“Oh, it’s funny.”

“A little bit. How bad is it?”

“It’s bad, getting really bad.”

“Let’s get an Uber.”

“Okay, yeah, we’re probably going to sit in this traffic.” It took eight sweaty minutes for the white Tesla to arrive on the other side of the street. Spencer called the driver. “You’re on the wrong side of the street,” Spencer said curtly. “Pick us up on the other side, please.” It took another five to finally pick them up. Then they sat in the creeping traffic. The concert was starting in 15 minutes and they hadn’t even crossed the Cambie Bridge. Eva seemed completely relaxed. Spencer wiped sweat away from his brow.

“Does it still hurt?”

It was on fire. “Not so bad.”

The Tesla crept through the traffic. Spencer’s heart pattered. He wiped his brow again with his dress shirt sleeve. The bridge traffic started moving fairly well, and the breeze off the water elevated his optimism, but when they hit downtown, it virtually stopped again.

“I think we should get out and walk, this will take forever,” he said to Eva. The driver looked at him quickly in the rearview.

“Okay,” she said.

They had less than five minutes, but they were blocks away, so they started running, weaving through the crowded sidewalk of well-dressed downtowners, he with a deep limp and then her back started bothering her, forcing her into a halting lope punctuated with grimaces of pain and grunts which mimicked his. It was surely as painful to watch.

“Ah!”

“Oh!”

The adrenaline and dopamine also had them laughing. A few pathetic stragglers like them were entering the Orpheum when they arrived. They took their seats with only seconds to spare before the orchestra stood for the conductor’s entrance.

“Amazing seats!” She said, smiling at him. They were in the middle, seven rows from the front.“You okay?”

He nodded and slipped off his shoe. “You?”

She nodded and turned her attention to the pianist arriving amid thick applause.

He gave her hand an affectionate squeeze. The opening of Beethoven’s 5th piano concerto is a distinct welcome to all that is good in life. They had made it despite all that life threw at them. Eva was brightly focused on the players, her face bathed lovingly in low, soft light from the orchestra.

At the intermission, he put on his shoe to visit the restroom, it burned hot as ever. When he returned to his seat, she handed him a bandaid.

“Where did you get that?”

“I asked at the coat check.”

He was surprised how that small gesture meant so much to him. Every bit of the pain had been worth it for that.

It was dark when they spilled out of the Orpheum, and he felt his spirits drop as it was a ‘friend day,’ they would not be staying together. He had the impulse to call an Uber because of the blister, but she said she was going to take the transit. “Yeah, I’ll do that too,” wanting to stay with her. The bandaid made it bearable. As they rode the bus, they chatted about how good the soloist was and then how Eva had taken ballet lessons as a child. He listened and responded attentively, but it was of only passing interest, his attention consumed by the fact that they would soon part.

The next stop was his, he had to transfer to another bus.

“Okay, this is me. Good night, friend.” He patted her knee and looked in her eyes. Come home with me. He knew not to say it. And didn’t have the guts. He hated himself in every way that came to mind. For leaving his family, for being a coward, for wearing stupid fancy shoes, for agreeing to friend days, for the smell of the bus, for everything rotten that so rightly pointed at him. He exited without looking back, wishing he could make her feel as good as when she had handed him the bandaid.

 

It was Saturday and he had nothing planned. She had told him she had bought ticket to see a film on her own at the cinemateque. He had decided this was a good thing, a woke thing. When people acted freely, the relationship was more tolerant and strong. He went for a cycle in the Endowment Lands and tried as much as possible to soak in the glory that it was, the sun flashing through the strong upright fir and cedar trees, the perfect breeze over his bare legs and arms. How many people get to enjoy such beauty today? He was one of the lucky people, but he couldn’t stop wishing she hadn’t bought the movie ticket only for herself. Was she with another man? His chest ached.

He peddled faster, sped over a bump and caught some air. What are you going to do? He had to accept things, do his best and press onward. Fuck. Showing her that he understood, that he saw her, giving her space, listening, being attentive, and trying to be funnier. Fuck, fuck, fuck. It all felt ridiculously blighted and pointless. There she was, preferring to be without him, and he was on probation! Whatever he seemed to have figured out in forty years appeared to be useless. One wanted this, the other wanted that, it was impossible to ever get it right. They were all eventually unhappy with him. He stopped and sat on a bench, the hard slats digging into his butt and back. He wanted to sleep, perchance to dream.