"Hi."
"Hi."
"Where have you been?"
He wishes there were a scantly clad, reasonably attractive woman hovering at the bar to justify the intensity with which he's been staring over Sheila's shoulder for the past...awkward interval of time. His luck isn't doing so well tonight, though, and instead of falling back on that neat excuse he forces out a laugh and returns the fork dangling between his fingers to the food in front of him. "Did I miss anything important? If so, feel free to summarize..."
She looks at him in that way she has, appraisal and affection mingled, prompting all manner of inane questions to race through his head. Sometimes, over the course of their conversations, he catches himself opening his mouth to ask, a propos of nothing, what it is that God sounds like, exactly.
"I don't like the haircut," she says, a hint of mischief in her eyes. He imagines she's restraining herself from leaning over the table and brushing her fingers through it.
"Is that all? This entire time you've been discussing nothing but me and I neglected to listen?"
"Well—"the tone is one of grudging admittance, and maybe he detects on the horizon the sort of confession elicited only by a direct question because in that instant his eyes fall on the remains of her salad and he studies the collapsed tents of lettuce intently, telling himself it's an attempt to decipher whether she's become a vegetarian.
When she makes a decision, she doesn't betray that fact but signals it instead, clearing her throat, and he looks up, perhaps because he knows it's expected. "You're wondering."
He smiles, practiced and easy as the stroke of a golfer. "What am I wondering?"
She won't ask if he's sure he wants to hear it—Alan knows the hazards invited by a question if anyone does. She does wait patiently for their eyes to meet, fully expecting him to excuse himself for a moment while focusing unaccountably on the tabletop.
He tilts his head upwards so they're eye-to-eye, his eyebrows raised in what strikes her as a wary gesture of defeat.
"You're wondering about Her." She might just as accurately have said, 'you're wondering about me' or 'you're wondering about yourself' or what really seems to be occupying his mind right now, but with Alan there's a taut line between knowledge and pain. The reality of hearing a thought of his voiced—the sound, with its dimensions of pitch and volume, nearly a tangible object—had prompted him to retreat before, and she didn't doubt it could do so again.
He sighs, chuckles a little, and shakes his head, his way of indicating that everything's fine, that he'll humor Sheila because they're good friends and she'd do the same for him. It's too late and too little, despite his best efforts. The scrape of silverware over a plate, a loud, alcohol-saturated conversation at a neighboring table, the slurp of an appreciative wine connoisseur, all insinuate their way into his consciousness. He overcompensates, speaking to drown out all extraneous noises and if he drowns out whatever he's thinking as well...well, so much the better. "I try to avoid wondering about things, Sheila. It invites disappointment."
"Ask me." She hits whatever note transforms it from a command into a plea and although neither of them has moved during the course of the conversation, he detects a sudden urgent proximity created by her request.
"It's to be expected," he says, so quietly they may as well be whispering. "Everyone...anyone who knows..." he pauses, to take stock of what's been said, and laughs dryly.
Once she's heard him laugh she's reaching for his hand. "Alan..."
"What must God think of me?"
By that point it's somehow become rhetorical and, after losing the strength to search her gaze any longer, he takes refuge in that, reaching to refill her glass and asking how she feels about ordering dessert.