Today's Special is the Jerk-Chicken Salad - Chapter 13: Espresso Gone Cold
At dawn, under a rising blistering-hot September sun, five months after Betty had unexpectedly visited his Bahamian restaurant, Gio turned his motorcycle onto the gravel lane leading him back to it. He gunned the engine, sending gravel scattering, and raced over the lane's washboard bumps, enjoying the feel of the brisk breeze whipping his hair back from his face.
Behind him were the day's groceries, jugs of milk, bread, other perishables, and also, as usual, the New York Times newspaper.
He parked the motorcycle at the back, beside the kitchen door, unloaded the groceries into the fridge, cut ten sprigs of hibiscus blossoms and filled the glass vases, lined up and waiting for them on the bar, and then walked to the front door intending to flip the sign from closed to open. He paused, his hand poised above the sign, considering when to open. Perhaps later, he thought, it was a good wind for surfing. He didn't flip the sign, postponing the decision until after reading the paper.
He went into the kitchen and poured a dish of cream for Pickles and brought it out and set it on the bar. Purring, Pickles crouched over the cream, his pink tongue darting, lapping it up greedily.
He laid the newspaper on the bar's counter, took out a cup and saucer, pulled himself an espresso, and took a biscotti out of the jar, setting it on the saucer.
Then Gio sat at the counter and picked up the paper. It was Wednesday, September 5, 2012. Wednesday. Hump day, chuckled Gio.
He spied the name Meade on the front page. Story and picture on page five. He couldn't read any more because all the letters suddenly began to dance and jiggle, they wouldn't sit still. The paper rustled in his shaking hands. He turned the pages swiftly, unable to concentrate on counting them and in too much of a hurry to try to read the page numbers.
Then he saw the picture.
Betty.
Smiling.
And Daniel.
"Betty!" uttered Gio aloud.
Scarcely able to breathe, Gio folded the paper very carefully, scanning every detail of the photograph.
The picture showed Betty at a press conference inside the UN, smiling triumphantly, her hand raised to her ear, and Daniel, standing beside her.
He could see on her wrist, beside her ear, a charm bracelet, with at least a dozen intricate, gemstone-encrusted charms dangling from it. She got the bracelet, thought Gio, and the charms are as unique, and precious, and whimsical, as she is.
Betty's hair was swept up into a chignon, her hand raised because she was pushing strands of hair behind her ear. Her hair is up, does that mean she thought of his hair clip, wondered Gio. Did she think of him?
"B," whispered Gio to her image. "I'm thinking of you."
The picture showed Daniel standing beside Betty with his hand on her arm, gazing at her with devotion, pride, and solicitous concern. Betty's sixth-month pregnancy was clearly visible. Her face was filled out, no longer gaunt. She glowed. She's healthy. Daniel loves her and he's looking after her. She looks happy, thought Gio. She is happy.
After examining the picture minutely, Gio turned his attention to the story.
"Meade Lands Prestigious UN Post' – Reuters - September 5, 2012. Story by Alain Jeffries, staff reporter"
"Officials at the UN announced the appointment of Meade Foundation's Chief Executive Officer, Betty Meade, to the 'Oppressive Cultures and Women' Task Force today. Despite a strong initial lead in the competition, Ms. Meade lost the position in April to the late Rajpal Singh, who was tragically killed in a car accident in New York two weeks ago.
"Earlier this year, the scandal caused by her husband's infidelity and the widely circulated humiliating YouTube videos of Ms. Meade's air-traffic security breach seriously undermined Ms. Meade's credibility as a candidate costing her the post. But the tide of public opinion turned dramatically after her calm and dignified appearance the next day on 'Good Morning New York', when she spoke passionately and eloquently for the task force. During the months after Ms. Singh's appointment, Ms. Meade's admirable fortitude under considerable stress garnered her sympathy from even the most jaded and cynical of New York's influential elite and tabloid reporters.
"Ms. Meade's gracious behavior after her defeat to Ms. Singh underscored the high respect the two women shared for each other. Ms. Meade remained a steadfast supporter of the committee's work and was so devoted to Ms. Singh that she was invited to eulogize her friend at the funeral, a rare and unusual honor. Ms. Meade's heartfelt and moving tribute to Ms. Singh touched the hearts all who witnessed it.
"In response to the appointment Ms. Meade said, 'It is an awesome honor to be able to follow in Rajpal's footsteps. I have been given so much in my life, and my dearest wish is to model myself after her selfless example and give back generously, dedicating myself to improving the lives of girls and women in countries around the world, and here in America, too.'"
His espresso gone cold and biscotti untouched, Gio gazed at the photo and reread the article, the words swimming before his eyes, until he knew it by heart. Then he folded up the newspaper and set it aside.
Working and living, thought Gio. Doing well.
She's on her way to accomplishing the great things she was destined to do.
Working and living. Making the world a better place.
Gio stood up and searched his music collection, looking for the romantic slow-dance mix he had played for Betty. He put it on and turned up the volume. The melodic, familiar music resonated in the empty restaurant.
He leant down and opened the cupboard under the bar's counter, and opened the safe inside it. He pulled out the gold-chain bracelet and put it on his left wrist, rubbing the polished metal with his fingers.
He leant down again and reached back into the safe, pulling out the small oblong biscuit tin and setting it in front of him.
Then the all-too-familiar pain of love and longing for Betty welled up and burst out of the special place in his broken heart, invading and permeating his entire being.
Struggling to breathe, Gio sat alone in his deserted restaurant, resting his elbows on the bar and his face in his hands, motionless.
The hopelessness and futility of his miserable predicament drove him into a lengthy and wrenching spell of profound introspection. Anger, frustration, shame, bewilderment and anguish raged within him until, after a long while, he came to think one thought, a single thought of striking simplicity: He loved her, he had always loved her, but he would not always love her. He would no longer love her, some day.
It comforted him that she had asked him if she could call him her ex-boyfriend. He took it as proof that they had indeed shared something real and special. There was a bond between them as unique and precious as a charm, a charm he could hold and treasure during the dark days ahead when his sublime love for her would inevitably weaken and begin to slip away leaving in its place a hollow emptiness at his core. It was time to start preparing for the inevitable loss, a loss he neither welcomed nor expected but would face squarely. It was time to let go and move on.
Some day, some time, his fettered heart would again be free. Free to suffer new agonies and to know new joys. But the prospect of free heart did not console him, yet; at this moment, he felt grief for a true love denied.
By the time he roused himself, the music had stopped and the restaurant was silent. He slowly, sadly, slipped the gold chain off his wrist and tucked it and the unopened biscuit tin back into the safe. Then he straightened up, put on some lively music, marched to the front door, and flipped the sign from closed to open.
He got a fresh cup of espresso, picked up the newspaper, took a breath, and folded it open to the back pages. He scanned the headings looking for the section with the title, "Businesses for Sale - Manhattan - Restaurants." The End.