20

On Tuesday, they went to a book launch, an acquaintance of Eva’s. His first novel. Spencer found Eva sitting on a concrete planter outside the bookstore, in the shade, sipping a can of fizzy water. She seemed calm, but in a bored way. He held open the door to the small independent bookstore for her and said, “This used to be my video store, thirty years ago.” He shuddered, time had passed so quickly. In another thirty years, he’d be 87. Would they be together? Would they be alive? The longing for the life he wanted with her felt like a missed train. All of this was wrong, as if a malevolent force had contrived to keep two people apart that were well-suited for each other and then put them together in the last hours after they had stumbled down errant paths and wrecked themselves.

There were seven short rows of chairs packed together near the back. They took seats midway. Spencer was repelled by the majority of attendees who were nearly indistinguishable from him and Eva, their age, grey-haired or bald men, dyed-haired women, glasses, lines, and sags, and squinting. He was overcome by the abhorrent feeling of having become his parents despite everything he’d done to avoid it. He would die a carbon copy, hardly a step straying beyond their intentions, dutifully sitting in a row, laughing at the bad jokes, clapping politely.

He leaned toward Eva’s ear. “The Driftmark is just a few doors down.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a dive bar with a great jukebox.”

She shrugged politely and cast it off by looking toward the stage where the author and the interviewer were taking their seats. The last time he’d been to the Driftmark was in the 90s when the woman he was dating took him there. She loved the raw, dingy atmosphere. He played Black Sabbath’s Iron Man, and they both laughed at how it sank the place deliciously further into hell, the story of a man trying to warn everyone of the future, but no one listens or cares, and then they treat him poorly because they don’t understand him.
He looked around. Couldn’t there be at least one person with a piercing or a tattoo? for then, his sentiment could be seen. He wanted to stand and kick over his chair, perhaps knock over some bookshelves and make it clear he would not be going politely. That was never the plan! This had all been a mistake, he’d been tricked into being someone he wasn’t, grey and invisible to such an extent that he never existed. Wasn’t it right to rebel? He would take Eva’s hand and scramble to The Driftmark, order shots of tequila and play the jukebox and then fuck desperately in the washroom stall. Something he would remember with a delicious smile at the age of 89, or perhaps even when he was dead.

Of course, he knew he would do nothing of the sort. He would remain seated and act dutifully. He wondered if Eva felt the same. Her face was placid, but so was his.
When they exited, the sun hadn’t set but had cooled enough to be pleasant. The author had been interesting enough to calm his nerves. They strolled down Broadway with no destination.

“What did you think?” he asked.

“I really liked how he stays consistent with the rule to write at least an hour every day. I need to do that.”

“Yeah, slow and steady wins the race. I liked that he said he wasn’t a perfectionist. That’s my problem, nothing ever feels good enough.”

“In what way?”

He thought for a moment. “I certainly felt that way when I was acting, but it’s anything I do, really. My client work, my cooking, how I dress.”

“That’s not good.”

“See what I mean?”

She blurted a laugh, realizing what she’d said. “You might be taking things too seriously.”

“I don’t really, I see everything as quite absurd.”

She looked at him, doubtful.

Abruptly, she pointed to the church kitty-corner, “That was the church I went to for a while. Martin goes there now, but he never went when I was going. He never went to any church when we were together, and now he goes to that one!”

“That’s weird, it’s far from where he lives.”

“Yeah, and now I can’t go there, of course.”

“He stole your church.”

“He did! Why does he get to go there and not me? With his wife!”

“Oh, it’s her church, obviously.”

“It’s not, she was never there before.”

It didn’t make sense. Why would Martin drive across town to attend this church with his new wife? A church he had no interest in attending with Eva when they were still together.

She abruptly changed the subject. “I love these tulips.”

The trees passed overhead like a calming hand. He wanted to be in the wilds with her again. He sighed. “It would be nice to get out of town again for a couple of days,” he said.

“Yeah, we could, when are you thinking? I have a week booked at my friend’s cottage in Whistler, the third week of July, with June.”

“Okay, find something that works before that. I’m flexible.”

 

That evening, she texted him a link to an Airbnb. It looked fine, a little white house surrounded by tall pines, the inside, the usual comfy couch, a two-seater island with Ikea stools for dining, bed, modern finished bathroom, they all looked the same, no one lived there, and fake wisdom would adorn the walls.

 

Him: Looks good!