One Heart, a Lie, and Dinner

"Bright flashing lights to welcome you home.

Dark night rainfall drenching you to the bone.

Your eyes are wide before that brutal collision.

One millisecond passes as you regret that decision. 

Too many drinks and not enough time.

Too little money to make this shit rhyme..."

The ink dripped off the tip of his pen, landing on the half written poem lying across his desk. The thought of scratching out one more single letter was agony. 

Drip. Drip. Drip. That sound echoed through the room, bouncing off books, then coming back, hitting him in his ear like a vociferous boomerang. 

His wrist ached with the forced pressure of laying pen to paper. But more so, his head cramped with the suffering of spending another night alone in the dusty study, filling those blank pages with hurtful words only because a group of repugnant publishers were throwing high numbered bills at him to do so.

He dreaded the day that turning his mental wounds into a best seller would become his reality. Forced to relive that most traumatic night over and over again just to keep the lights on and the refrigerator running. Some days the thought was too much.

For about the ninety-fifth time that afternoon, he pushed himself away from the escritoire, sliding to the opposite side of the room on a chair with a broken wheel. The squeak of strain the poor old thing released was a welcomed change in sound. 

He stood. He needed a drink. "They aren't paying me to write sappy poetry. They want the vicious truth," he mumbled to no one as he ran his palm across the unkempt strands of a graying beard.

Shuffling over to the well-used bar nestled in the corner of his dying library, he poured himself a whiskey. That amber nectar was what he wanted most, and the last thing he needed. He watched the liquid dance around a few chunks of ice as he swirled the glass. He chugged it.

"Write a story 'bout the love you lost!

We'll pay you to pen it, no matter the cost!

It's so tragic she died! So terrible she's gone!

But please keep making us money! You're an amazing author, Shaun!"

He chuckled sardonically while he licked the last few drops of booze from his cup. "I'm so deplorably clever," he whispered to the bottle. "It's a shame you're the only one around to listen." 

His pocket vibrated loudly. Almost dropping his whiskey, he reached across his slightly ever-growing beer belly to pull out his cellphone. He answered the call with a press of his thumb.

"Sydney, hi."

"Hello, Shaun! Did I catch you at a bad time?"

He glanced around at his quarter full liquor decanter, stacks of emotionally soaked rough drafts, and overflowing trash bins. "No, not at all. How are you?"

A sweet laugh danced through the speaker. He liked that sound. "I'm doing alright. I was just calling to make sure we are still on for meeting tonight?"

Dinner with the girl who has my dead wife's heart. How could I forget? "Of course. Rubio's Italian Cuisine. Eight o'clock. I'll be there." 

"Sounds fantastic. Can't wait to finally meet you! We have so much to talk about."

He could practically hear her smile. "Yep. See you." Sighing heavily, he ended the call. 

With one last fleeting glimpse at his decaying book collection and the writing desk taunting him with it's stark white papers draped across it's surface like a wedding gown, he headed out for some Italian grub and awkward conversation. 

                             _______________________________________

The lights were dim, and he preferred it that way; the more murky the brightness, the less likely she was to see the plum colored bags beneath his eyes. They sat facing each other in silence for longer than what was comfortable, even for Shaun. He chewed his lip and watched waiters hurry by with wobbly trays. The monotonous sound of ripped leather bunching up under his jeans as he fidgeted in his booth seat grated his nerves. 

Just say something! Anything! "So, how's the thumper treating you?" He closed his eyes, wishing they could be nailed shut. WOW. 

"Right to the point, huh?" Sydney let out an uncomfortable laugh. 

"Yeah, I don't know why I said that. I must be really nervous." 

"It's alright. I can't fault you for that. Although, I did have a few questions?"

Shaun sighed audibly with relief. "Of course! Shoot."

Sydney placed both of her delicate hands atop the restaurant menu, preparing. "Okay. You're writing a book about the...well the..." 

He pitied her. "The car crash. And yes, I'm on hook for a detailed and interesting tale of my wife's demise, and by extension, you." He held his hand out, palm up, gesturing. 

"I suppose that makes sense. It is an amazing true story." She beamed at him. "One wish, if I could have any at all, would be to tell your wife thank you for saving my life." 

"She wouldn't have thought twice about it."

Sydney played with frayed edges of her emerald green cocktail dress. "May I ask how it happened? Exactly how it happened?" She wouldn't meet his eyes when she questioned.

Already a few good drinks in, and an empty stomach to make matters worse, he rushed into telling without holding back. "The night started off great. We went dancing, had ourselves a fair amount of wine. We laughed, we smoked. But that was where the good in our date ended. For some reason, a drunken stupor no doubt, we decided that getting behind the wheel to go for a drive was a bright idea. It started raining. Hard. Noelle became enraged at something so asinine that I don't even recall what it was! The yelling turned into a full-blown drunk screaming match. That's when she told me. She confessed to having an affair for the past eight years of our marriage. In that moment, it felt like I was struck by a thousand bricks straight to my chest. I couldn't believe her. I didn't know if I had it in me to believe her. As wasted as I was, I took my eyes off the road for a split second, but that was long enough. I lost control, and the wet asphalt took the car right off the side of an embankment." This time it was Shaun who couldn't meet the eyes of Sydney. 

"Shaun, I'm so sorry." A single genuine tear rolled down her pink cheek. He watched it glide down and slip off the pointed tip of her chin. He realized that Sydney was easy to talk to. It was a new feeling, and he enjoyed it.

"I shouldn't have looked away from the road. Not in that kind of weather. But you know what's ironic? When she spoke those words, I absolutely needed her to tell me she was lying. That it was an angry, false statement. But that wasn't the lie. The lie was our marriage. And tonight, that lie brought me here; sitting in a crummy eatery with a pretty girl who has a heart I've known for a long time, and that makes me feel like maybe things will be alright." A smile of his own cracked his lips, spreading up to touch his dimples. 

He was graced with a returning smile from Sydney. 

"If you want to get macabre, I'm technically alive because of your wife's deceptive ways. If you had never found out, I wouldn't be here." She blushed, biting her lip. "I hope that didn't sound too awful."

"I think it was the right amount of awful." 

To Shaun, it felt delightful to smile in the midst of a tragedy that happened nearly three years prior. It felt like breathing again.

"So do you have a name for this soon-to-be book of yours, Mr. Writer?" 

Shaun thought on that for a moment, considering all of his options. But what popped into his head seemed fitting enough. "I do, actually. I think I'll call it, "One Heart, a Lie, and Dinner.""