August 1978 – Fairfield, CT

Michael walked quietly into their darkened room that night and saw Angela's long form under the covers on her side, nearest the door. He went around to his side of the bed, and took his shirt and pants off. Climbing into bed, he scootched closer to her.

"Angela," he whispered softly. He gently put a hand on her shoulder. She flinched, but didn't open her eyes. He frowned. "Angela," he spoke a little bit louder. "Come on; please talk to me."

Angela squeezed her eyes tighter. She'd been almost asleep when she'd heard him come in. She felt childish, but she had nothing to give at the moment. She couldn't defend herself, and she loathed the thought of defending herself to him. Any progression felt like it would be in the wrong direction. Somehow, silence seemed like a pause button, and him trying to pull her out of it actually felt better.

"Angela, really?" He was sounding irritated. "You won't even look at me? Come on." He tried again to be soft. "I'm sorry I yelled at you. I really am. I just had the worst day, and it seemed like you didn't care."

She rolled over to face the door, and he scowled. "Fine," he flipped over to face the other direction. "I guess I wasn't that far off."


The next day, things were still quiet between the two of them. Angela wanted to take time to regroup, but found herself feeling soothed in the waiting. They didn't say anything to each other that morning before he went back to the studio. And while she spent most of the day thinking about him and everything that had happened, she had no desire to call him at work. Other than a mini grocery run for essentials, she'd been busy with the movers all day, anyway. She put Jonathan to bed in the early evening, and decided to take a breather in their newly set-up kitchen. Peeling back a banana, she'd just put her feet up on the next chair and opened a soda, when Michael walked in.

He looked at her for a second. "You want to talk to me now?" Michael asked, a bit of an edge in his voice.

Angela could already feel tears coming. Great! She took a breath and looked him in the eye, damning her tears. "You give me thirty seconds of sweet last night after scraping every nerve on my heart, and I'm supposed to roll over and be grateful?"

Michael breathed out in exasperation, "I spent those thirty seconds trying to say I was sorry!"

Angela scooted her chair back angrily. I'm having this conversation standing up. She squinted her eyes from the other side of the table. "For what? For yelling? How about for being mean? For pushing me down whenever you're frustrated? How about for not caring how scary you are?" Furious tears fell from her molten glare. "I cried myself almost to sleep – again – and you creep in, saying you're sorry for yelling, and rationalize the rest of it? Then you get mad – again – when I don't want to hear it? Now, I have two seconds to correct my egregious behavior, or I'll be settling in for another night of your legendary ire? Tell me, Michael, are anyone else's feelings valid, or just yours?"

Michael stared at her enigmatically for a few seconds.

Then he turned and opened the fridge, checking the contents. He pulled out a soda, and popped the top. With lids halfway down his eyes, he drawled, "Home, Sweet, Home," before walking back through the swinging door.

Angela let out an exhausted breath, and leaned down with both hands spread wide against the table. After several seconds, she flipped her head up, and looked at the fridge. Cutting around the table, she walked up to the refrigerator and shoved it with her shoulder as hard as she could. Ouch! It rocked, but little else. She grabbed the sides of the front, and tried to push. She moved both her hands to the middle of the door, and pushed. She turned around, and pushed with her back. It never budged. Tears of frustration fell, and she slid down the door to the floor with them. Pulling her knees up, she wiped her eyes angrily with her arm. She rested her elbows on her knees, and dropped her face into her hands. There was far too much space between the fridge and the wall.


Monday morning, Angela was wrapping her hair around a curling iron in front of the mirror when Michael walked into their bathroom. He stopped next her, and lightly put his hand up to the small of her back. She stiffened, but continued to hold the steaming curl in place.

He dropped his hand in defeat, and looked at her in the mirror. "Angela, are you going to be mad at me forever? I said I was sorry. What else can I do?"

Her head started to feel swollen, and she needed air. Her aloofness had allowed her some reprieve, and squaring up now with how she really felt was already starting to overwhelm. She put down the curling iron, but kept looking at him through the mirror.

After a few seconds, she shrugged. "I'm really hurt." She looked down, "You really scared me that night."

Michael exhaled with a little nod of understanding. "I'm sorry. It's not your fault we're delayed… I shouldn't have dumped that on you."

Angela could feel her eyes start to fill. She knew there was more to say, but she didn't want him to see her cry right then. She didn't want pressure on him to fix it, and she didn't want to defend herself. So, right before her tears could escape, she turned to Michael and hugged him tightly around the waist. She closed her eyes into his shirt, and he put his arms around her, cradling her close. "I'm sorry I scared you," he muffled by her ear. Her only response was to squeeze him tighter. Please don't leave me again.


Angela dialed Michael's office number on her lunch break. She still felt unsure of them, but really wanted to be close to him.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Honey," she said softly.

He mimicked the quiet mood. "Hey, Baby."

"Do you want to go to Chesterton's tonight? Just the two of us? My mother said she could watch Jonathan a while longer…I could really use some of their clam chowder," she said, somewhat awkwardly.

There was a brief pause, then Michael answered. "That sounds great. I can't remember the last time the two of us went out to dinner."

She smiled sadly, knowing it was true. But her confidence grew with his obvious interest. "Yeah, but it's got to be there. These New Yorkers don't know how chowder is done."

He laughed a little, apparently accepting her proposed shift. "Tomatoes are for everybody, but not for everything," he said dutifully.

"Cheers to that," she saluted, still cowed but willfully encroaching.

"Okay... See you at the station."

"…See you then."

Everything was stilted and delayed. Every joke. Every response. It all felt tight. Hopefully we can loosen that up tonight.


Michael and Angela walked into Chesterton's like they were in the desert. They hadn't spoken much on the train; bare necessities and politeness. But they did a lot of subdued smiling, and she walked holding his whole arm until they were being seated in the dark pub. She couldn't place it, but she had a ferocious need to be close to him.

The hostess guided them through the maze of the after-work crowd seated in smooth, dark-stained, low, wooden chairs around matching circular tables. The exposed beams, lit rock fireplace, and metal steins of this Connecticut treasure always made Angela feel like she was stepping back in time. She half-expected to see Benjamin Franklin walk out of the men's room.

They scooted their chairs a little closer to each other as they sat down. This popular place was the very essence of hiding in a crowd. Angela felt blissfully invisible, and able to open up, despite their close proximity with the other patrons. Everybody was enthusiastically involved in their own conversations, and she didn't feel the need to "censor herself". This seemed like a good place to start talking again.

She reached for his hand resting off the arm of his chair, and held it. "I miss you."

He looked at her a few seconds before responding. "You mean that?"

She looked at him seriously. "I do."

He nodded. "I miss you, too…A lot." He was looking at her intently, like he was trying to find something. "What happened to us?"

A waitress walked up just then, and pulled a pen from behind her ear. "Are you ready to order?" They hadn't bothered to look at the menus on the table. It didn't matter; they always got the same thing there.

Michael sat up a little. "Yeah, we'll both have the clam chowder in bread bowls and Caesar salads."

She scratched quickly on her notepad, "Drinks?"

"I'm good with ice water," he looked at Angela. "You?"

Angela smiled, and then looked up at the lady. "Me, too."

The waitress nodded, "It might be a little while. We're packed tonight."

"That's fine," Angela said. The lady picked up their menus, and left in a rush.

Angela looked at Michael, then down at his hand she was stroking with her thumb. She started softly, "I don't know. I never wanted to be at odds with you…but it feels like that's all we ever are."

He nodded, "Yeah."

She braved a look at his face. "I guess I feel like you don't really want to be with me. You just want to be with who you want me to be."

He kept looking at her, then answered. "Yeah. That's how I feel, too."

She nodded, "I can see that."

They both smiled sadly.

Angela thought maybe her negotiation skills could help them out. "What if, we tried to lay out what was most important to us, so we don't accidentally skip over those, as we're trying to prioritize all that we've got going on – because it's a lot."

He nodded, seemingly on board. "Okay."

"Well, with me," she took a breath, thinking, "making sure Jonathan is safe and well-cared for…making sure you and I are okay…and making sure I do the best I can at my job, are my top priorities."

"That's the order?"

She was a little taken aback, "Order? I don't know. Does there have to be an order? They're all important. To me."

He gave a slow nod, but she could feel the spines starting to poke out through his armor. She hesitated, but lost her nerve to press. Trying to work around it, she redirected, "What are yours?"

Michael's eyebrows went up and down, and he sighed. "I want to be happy in my work. I want you and I to be okay," he nodded at her, then shrugged. "And I want Jonathan okay."

Is that in any particular order? she thought, newly anxious at the idea. Still, she lacked the will to confirm. I'm not sure this is the right time. All this feels quite precarious.

He continued, "I don't think the real problem is our priorities, but how we define them." She tilted her head, paying close attention and feeling noticeably attracted to his intellect. "See, I want Jonathan to be okay, but I don't think he'll die if I wake him up by laughing too loud. But I do feel like I could die if you shush me one more time."

A smile tipped on her face, "Point taken." She tilted her head the other way. "To me, it's important that I get myself prepared the night before work. It takes a lot more for me to get ready than it does for you. I mean, aren't you glad my hair and makeup routine isn't the same as yours?"

He laughed softly, "I guess."

"So, I really need that time, to look my best, to feel my best, so I can work my best – and be my best for you - and I need your help watching Jonathan while I do it."

"I do watch him while you get ready," he said defensively.

Angela sucked in a breath, "Yes, you do, and I'm always appreciative of it…But I'm also always worried about asking you; that you'll get mad."

He sighed extensively. "It's irritating... Are you sure you're not just making up ridiculous things I don't understand to get away from me?"

There was a boyish sweetness in the way he asked that, and she smiled endearingly. "No; it really does take me that long."

He let out a snort. "I don't know how you have the patience for it."

She chuckled. "Well," she tilted her head and ran her fingers up his forearm. "When you look at me the way you do in the morning, after I'm all done getting ready, it makes it all worth it."

A small smile braved on his face, "So, you're not trying to get away from me?"

She dropped her seductive look, and squared up like the VP she was. "Not. In anything."

He kept his reclined position, and held eye contact. "Damn, you're good at this. No wonder those fancy pants want you there."

She shook her head, smiling, and leaned in close. "That's the most supportive thing you've ever said to me."

He leaned in, scant inches from her face, and spoke gently. "I hate that you work. I want you to just be mine."

A shocking sadness seem to physically travel from her heart to her throat, but she didn't move. "I am, but don't you want me to be happy?" she said in a small voice, terrified of the answer.

He looked as sad as she was. "Yeah. Yeah, I do… I just wish I was the one making you happy."

"You are. I want to be with you. This is just another part of me, an important part, but not your competition."

Still inches apart, he continued looking in her eyes, and spoke quietly. "I don't understand that."

"I know," Angela kissed him softly. "Please let me try to show you." She tilted her head, and slowly went in for another kiss. Bringing one hand up to his face and the other to the side of his neck, she slid her tongue along every edge of his mouth. Pushing and pulling with a forceful softness, she willed him to comprehend the sincerity of her heart. She felt her chest naturally come up close to him, inviting. She finished with a light kiss to his lips and rested their foreheads together. Softly but sincerely, she said, "I don't want to lose us."

Michael looked like he was tentatively taking in her argument, joining in the kiss, but unsure of the agreement. Angela felt renewed in her mission. She was going to make sure he knew she valued him.


Before they left the pub, Angela stepped into the phonebooth to call her mother.

"Mother, the restaurant was busy, and it took longer. I'm sorry to hold you up."

"It's fine, Angela," Mona said airily.

"Oh, well, thank you." I thought she'd be a little miffed.

"Yeah, he's pretty cute. I'll just keep him tonight. Go make me another one of these things."

Angela's lids dropped a little. "Goodnight, Mother."

"You're really trying to front?" Mona said dryly. "Sell it somewhere else, dear."

Realizing propriety was lost on her mother, Angela decided to counter. "Fine. I'm gonna bang his boots 'till he begs for mercy."

Mona laughed loudly. "Atta girl!" she said, clapping.

Smiling rather proudly, Angela repeated herself, but brightly, "Goodnight, Mother."

"Go get 'em, kid."

Shaking her head, Angela hung up the phone.

Angela left the phonebooth and grabbed Michael's hand, not his arm. And she didn't hold it like she was grasping for her life. She held it like she wanted to take him somewhere, all of him. Walking up to their car in the dark, Angela walked past the passenger side. "I want to drive tonight," she said taking out her keys. Michael looked a little like his patience was costing him something, but she wasn't even remotely deterred.

Angela drove the short distance to their house and parked behind the kitchen door. Pulling the keys out of the ignition, she dumped them somewhere in the backseat. Propping her hand on his thigh, she brought her outside leg over the gear shift. Michael's eyes widened, trying to make sense of things. Tucking in her other leg, she faced him, huddling down, with her knees on the floor. She reached up for his buckle, but didn't drop eye contact.

"Out here?" he asked, starting to smile.

"For now."