Part Two
My fingers are trembling as I reach for the brass door handle of the café. Once upon a time, I pulled on those handles so often that my handprints were permanently embedded in them. She's there - behind the cash register, counting bills, fastening them together with paperclips.
I can't do this. I can't walk in there and talk to her like I just saw her yesterday. Okay, I'm disgusting myself - get in there, mighty king. She's just a girl.
Yep, a girl that could topple this mighty king.
Inside, the air is cool and the familiar smells of the grill greet me. My whole body comes to alert as I move to stand before her. She looks the same, but not really. Instead of the hideous turquoise alien uniform, she's dressed in a pair of well-fitting jeans and a sleeveless black sweater.
"Table for one?" she asks without looking up.
"No, I don't need a table."
She drops some of the bills into a drawer and still hasn't looked up. "A seat at the bar, then?"
Surely she recognizes my voice. Surely her body is as alive as mine is right now, wanting, needing. I want nothing more than to reach across that barrier between us and wrap her in my arms. But she seems oblivious. "Liz. It's me."
Finally, she looks up and I see nothing in her eyes. No happiness, no hate. Nothing.
"I know," she says. "Where would you like to sit?"
I know that I can't stop the startled look on my face. She's floored me. I'm not here to eat; she must know that. "I'm not hungry," I manage.
"Well, we're really busy, so if you aren't going to use the table."
Part of the heightening of my battle skills is the ability to survey a situation in a very short span of time. Without even thinking about it, I counted the people in the café as I entered. Six. Two of whom are workers. Six does not equate a crowd, or a throng, or even "busy" as she put it.
"I wanted to see you," I say, trying to implore her to spend a few moments with me.
"Why?" she asks, her voice void of confrontation.
I can't find the right words so I just stare at her uncomfortably, in bewilderment.
After a few horrible moments, she pushes a lock of her chin-length hair behind her ear and I see a something reflect the sunlight coming through the window, a flash on her hand. My eyes follow it as she puts her hand back down on the counter.
It's a ring.
She didn't wait for me.
Did I expect her to? Maybe I did. Maybe I had deluded myself into believing she really was pining away for me back here, that she was just waiting for her man to come back from war.
"Are you married?" My voice suddenly sounds foreign to me. Someone else is asking Liz Parker these questions.
"Not yet," she says softly, some of the hostility gone from her tone.
I don't know what to say. I have a lump the size of Yankee Stadium in my throat and for some reason my chest feels like it's caving in. "Not yet," I repeat.
"Soon," she confirms with a nod of her head. "A few months."
So soon. Too soon. "I, uh.congratulations, Liz." Did I really just say that? How could I have spouted out something so insincere?
"Thanks," she responds and her expression says it all - I'm the last person she wants to receive best wishes from.
Another very long, uncomfortable silence ensues; it is finally relieved by the ringing of the café bell as a couple enters and gets in line behind me. She looks past my shoulder, obviously thankful for the reprieve.
"I have customers," she says softly, almost apologetically and I almost believe she does feel bad about giving me the boot.
"Of course," I say and start to back away. "Can I call you? Just to, you know.catch up?"
She cocks her head and looks uncertain. Then she gives a little shrug of noncommittal which I will take as a maybe. As I turn my back on her, I hear her greeting the customers as if she hadn't just had her life wrecked.
Oh, wait, that was me.
*****
Outside, Michael is leaning against the brick façade of the Crashdown, his back to the wall, his eyes never stopping their relentless search for possible threats.
"What are you still doing here?" I ask him, trying to squelch the nauseous feeling in the pit of my stomach.
"Watching your back," he says simply, then falls in step beside me as we start walking back to Maria's shop.
I snort a small laugh. "It wasn't really necessary, Michael." I think perhaps he's a little over-protective these days.
He shrugs, shoves his hands into his pockets.
"Did Maria go back to her store?"
He nods. He's as much a conversationalist as he's ever been.
We walk for a few blocks and I feel like I can start to breathe again the farther we move from the café. The shaking has gone from my knees and I feel a little more in control. And possibly denial.
"Was it hard to see Maria?" I ask Michael, squinting against the sun.
He purses his lips. He doesn't like to talk about how he feels. "Yes. And no."
I wait, wondering if I will have to bait him to continue.
"I love Maria," he says simply, honestly. "I'll always love her. But things are different now, you know?" He looks at his shoes, like they hold the words he wants to use to express himself. "That part of our lives is over."
Maybe that's how Liz feels. That she and I are just a chapter of the past. "What if you found out she was getting married?"
His gaze snaps to mine. He's caught on immediately. But I get the feeling his shock is for me and my loss, not the thought of his losing Maria. "I'd let her go," he replies. "I already have let her go. And I'd want her to be happy."
I have immense envy for the man walking beside me. I'm envious because he's figured out how to let go of something he wasn't meant to have.
We stop before Maria's shop and as I reach for the door knob, Michael shifts his weight in the opposite direction. I look at him questioningly.
"I told Iz I'd bring her lunch," he says and then disappears.
I wonder if some day those two will be straight with me about what goes on between them. I wonder if I really want to know.
*****
"You need some Valerian Root."
I lift my head from my arms and look at Maria, who is pointing to a shelf of herbal remedies. "Some what?"
"Valerian Root," she says, picking up the bottle from the shelf. "The ancient Romans used to use it. Relaxes you. Helps you sleep."
I'm squatted on her stool behind the counter and I had been burying my head in my arms in agony until she conjured up her latest spell. I take the bottle from her and read the back of it. It has all of those non-specific herbal ramblings on it. I raise an eyebrow, open the bottle and recoil from the smell that escapes.
"Do you really take this crap?" I ask her.
Indignant, she snatches the bottle from the hand. "It is not crap, Max Evans. This stuff keeps a roof over my head."
I didn't really look the first time, but now I do. Just to see what kind of "crap" Maria sells. Lots of herbal stuff, 'natural' ingredient make up, aroma therapy. I'm suddenly touched that she hasn't given in to the tourist trade and exploited her friends by carrying alien-themed merchandise.
"No little green men?" I ask, my eyes skimming over the shelves.
"Huh?" She's stuffing the lid back on the Valerian bottle.
"You don't carry any alien stuff," I comment.
She raises one side of her lip, shakes her head. "Why be like everyone else in Roswell?" I deflate a little, thinking that her reluctance to carry the stuff is more market-based than morality-based. Then she throws in, "Besides, it's kind of racist, you know?"
Maria will never stop amazing me.
Liz used to amaze me. Every day. Now she just bewilders me.
I feel soft fingers on top of my hand and I look up into Maria's eyes.
"I tried," she says sympathetically.
"To what?"
She draws in a deep breath, her slim body expanding with the movement in an oddly evocative way. "To warn you about Liz."
I look back down to my hands, to her hand covering only a small portion of one of mine. Her skin is beautifully pale for this climate and contrasts starkly with mine. I don't want to talk with Maria about Liz. But there are some things I just need to know. "How long has she been engaged?"
She lets go of my hand and shrugs. "Three months." I look up when she hesitates and I know that's what she was waiting for. "She didn't run right to him, Max. It's not like she dumped you and then picked the first one who came along."
Didn't pick the first one? So there were others? My stomach hurts. "Who is he?" I ask.
"No one you know. His name is Mike. He's a dentist."
A dentist. It sounds so ordinary. Especially when she could have me - I'm a king! And that sounds ridiculous. There's a huge job market out there for kings, I hear. No wonder she went looking for someone with some stability.
I don't even realize that I drifted off into never land until I feel Maria slip in between my legs and wrap her arms around my shoulders. I'm really slipping - I didn't even notice her rounding the counter. It startles me and I almost react violently - another horrible after-effect to all of the things I have seen. But I quickly push that response away and try to focus on what she is doing.
"It's okay," she says against my ear, her words soft and reassuring. "I know this is hard for you, but I'm here for you, Max."
I don't want Maria to be here for me. But I also don't want to hurt her feelings, so I put my arms around her in a loose hug. I know she means well. I know she just wants to help. But I don't want help. I want Liz. And even though she has a rock the size of Mount Everest on her finger, she's not married yet and I'm not giving up.
My fingers are trembling as I reach for the brass door handle of the café. Once upon a time, I pulled on those handles so often that my handprints were permanently embedded in them. She's there - behind the cash register, counting bills, fastening them together with paperclips.
I can't do this. I can't walk in there and talk to her like I just saw her yesterday. Okay, I'm disgusting myself - get in there, mighty king. She's just a girl.
Yep, a girl that could topple this mighty king.
Inside, the air is cool and the familiar smells of the grill greet me. My whole body comes to alert as I move to stand before her. She looks the same, but not really. Instead of the hideous turquoise alien uniform, she's dressed in a pair of well-fitting jeans and a sleeveless black sweater.
"Table for one?" she asks without looking up.
"No, I don't need a table."
She drops some of the bills into a drawer and still hasn't looked up. "A seat at the bar, then?"
Surely she recognizes my voice. Surely her body is as alive as mine is right now, wanting, needing. I want nothing more than to reach across that barrier between us and wrap her in my arms. But she seems oblivious. "Liz. It's me."
Finally, she looks up and I see nothing in her eyes. No happiness, no hate. Nothing.
"I know," she says. "Where would you like to sit?"
I know that I can't stop the startled look on my face. She's floored me. I'm not here to eat; she must know that. "I'm not hungry," I manage.
"Well, we're really busy, so if you aren't going to use the table."
Part of the heightening of my battle skills is the ability to survey a situation in a very short span of time. Without even thinking about it, I counted the people in the café as I entered. Six. Two of whom are workers. Six does not equate a crowd, or a throng, or even "busy" as she put it.
"I wanted to see you," I say, trying to implore her to spend a few moments with me.
"Why?" she asks, her voice void of confrontation.
I can't find the right words so I just stare at her uncomfortably, in bewilderment.
After a few horrible moments, she pushes a lock of her chin-length hair behind her ear and I see a something reflect the sunlight coming through the window, a flash on her hand. My eyes follow it as she puts her hand back down on the counter.
It's a ring.
She didn't wait for me.
Did I expect her to? Maybe I did. Maybe I had deluded myself into believing she really was pining away for me back here, that she was just waiting for her man to come back from war.
"Are you married?" My voice suddenly sounds foreign to me. Someone else is asking Liz Parker these questions.
"Not yet," she says softly, some of the hostility gone from her tone.
I don't know what to say. I have a lump the size of Yankee Stadium in my throat and for some reason my chest feels like it's caving in. "Not yet," I repeat.
"Soon," she confirms with a nod of her head. "A few months."
So soon. Too soon. "I, uh.congratulations, Liz." Did I really just say that? How could I have spouted out something so insincere?
"Thanks," she responds and her expression says it all - I'm the last person she wants to receive best wishes from.
Another very long, uncomfortable silence ensues; it is finally relieved by the ringing of the café bell as a couple enters and gets in line behind me. She looks past my shoulder, obviously thankful for the reprieve.
"I have customers," she says softly, almost apologetically and I almost believe she does feel bad about giving me the boot.
"Of course," I say and start to back away. "Can I call you? Just to, you know.catch up?"
She cocks her head and looks uncertain. Then she gives a little shrug of noncommittal which I will take as a maybe. As I turn my back on her, I hear her greeting the customers as if she hadn't just had her life wrecked.
Oh, wait, that was me.
*****
Outside, Michael is leaning against the brick façade of the Crashdown, his back to the wall, his eyes never stopping their relentless search for possible threats.
"What are you still doing here?" I ask him, trying to squelch the nauseous feeling in the pit of my stomach.
"Watching your back," he says simply, then falls in step beside me as we start walking back to Maria's shop.
I snort a small laugh. "It wasn't really necessary, Michael." I think perhaps he's a little over-protective these days.
He shrugs, shoves his hands into his pockets.
"Did Maria go back to her store?"
He nods. He's as much a conversationalist as he's ever been.
We walk for a few blocks and I feel like I can start to breathe again the farther we move from the café. The shaking has gone from my knees and I feel a little more in control. And possibly denial.
"Was it hard to see Maria?" I ask Michael, squinting against the sun.
He purses his lips. He doesn't like to talk about how he feels. "Yes. And no."
I wait, wondering if I will have to bait him to continue.
"I love Maria," he says simply, honestly. "I'll always love her. But things are different now, you know?" He looks at his shoes, like they hold the words he wants to use to express himself. "That part of our lives is over."
Maybe that's how Liz feels. That she and I are just a chapter of the past. "What if you found out she was getting married?"
His gaze snaps to mine. He's caught on immediately. But I get the feeling his shock is for me and my loss, not the thought of his losing Maria. "I'd let her go," he replies. "I already have let her go. And I'd want her to be happy."
I have immense envy for the man walking beside me. I'm envious because he's figured out how to let go of something he wasn't meant to have.
We stop before Maria's shop and as I reach for the door knob, Michael shifts his weight in the opposite direction. I look at him questioningly.
"I told Iz I'd bring her lunch," he says and then disappears.
I wonder if some day those two will be straight with me about what goes on between them. I wonder if I really want to know.
*****
"You need some Valerian Root."
I lift my head from my arms and look at Maria, who is pointing to a shelf of herbal remedies. "Some what?"
"Valerian Root," she says, picking up the bottle from the shelf. "The ancient Romans used to use it. Relaxes you. Helps you sleep."
I'm squatted on her stool behind the counter and I had been burying my head in my arms in agony until she conjured up her latest spell. I take the bottle from her and read the back of it. It has all of those non-specific herbal ramblings on it. I raise an eyebrow, open the bottle and recoil from the smell that escapes.
"Do you really take this crap?" I ask her.
Indignant, she snatches the bottle from the hand. "It is not crap, Max Evans. This stuff keeps a roof over my head."
I didn't really look the first time, but now I do. Just to see what kind of "crap" Maria sells. Lots of herbal stuff, 'natural' ingredient make up, aroma therapy. I'm suddenly touched that she hasn't given in to the tourist trade and exploited her friends by carrying alien-themed merchandise.
"No little green men?" I ask, my eyes skimming over the shelves.
"Huh?" She's stuffing the lid back on the Valerian bottle.
"You don't carry any alien stuff," I comment.
She raises one side of her lip, shakes her head. "Why be like everyone else in Roswell?" I deflate a little, thinking that her reluctance to carry the stuff is more market-based than morality-based. Then she throws in, "Besides, it's kind of racist, you know?"
Maria will never stop amazing me.
Liz used to amaze me. Every day. Now she just bewilders me.
I feel soft fingers on top of my hand and I look up into Maria's eyes.
"I tried," she says sympathetically.
"To what?"
She draws in a deep breath, her slim body expanding with the movement in an oddly evocative way. "To warn you about Liz."
I look back down to my hands, to her hand covering only a small portion of one of mine. Her skin is beautifully pale for this climate and contrasts starkly with mine. I don't want to talk with Maria about Liz. But there are some things I just need to know. "How long has she been engaged?"
She lets go of my hand and shrugs. "Three months." I look up when she hesitates and I know that's what she was waiting for. "She didn't run right to him, Max. It's not like she dumped you and then picked the first one who came along."
Didn't pick the first one? So there were others? My stomach hurts. "Who is he?" I ask.
"No one you know. His name is Mike. He's a dentist."
A dentist. It sounds so ordinary. Especially when she could have me - I'm a king! And that sounds ridiculous. There's a huge job market out there for kings, I hear. No wonder she went looking for someone with some stability.
I don't even realize that I drifted off into never land until I feel Maria slip in between my legs and wrap her arms around my shoulders. I'm really slipping - I didn't even notice her rounding the counter. It startles me and I almost react violently - another horrible after-effect to all of the things I have seen. But I quickly push that response away and try to focus on what she is doing.
"It's okay," she says against my ear, her words soft and reassuring. "I know this is hard for you, but I'm here for you, Max."
I don't want Maria to be here for me. But I also don't want to hurt her feelings, so I put my arms around her in a loose hug. I know she means well. I know she just wants to help. But I don't want help. I want Liz. And even though she has a rock the size of Mount Everest on her finger, she's not married yet and I'm not giving up.