Free to a Good Home

Yes, I know, it's been ages. I've been doing my HSC, supposedly. That means nearly every story I write over the next seven months will be about belonging. What can I do? This one's inspired by "Free to a Good Home", the song "Maybe This Time" and the contrasts of old and new.

Free to a good home – one female. Aged, mature, some memory issues. Previously used. Would make good addition to any home.

Maybe this time, I’ll be lucky,

Maybe this time he’ll stay.

The café was a jumble of old and new. French polished tables with fluorescent orange placemats, covered in the crumbs of yesterday’s sandwiches. Smooth jazz leaked softly from speakers the size of tea chests. A waiter wore a top hat over his mohawk.

For the first time, she didn’t stand out. Just another relic of a bygone age, struggling to fit into a world she no longer understood. Clashing with the décor, so to speak.

Her dress was a little old, but no one would notice unless they came close enough to see the fraying edges. She could remember a time when every woman in the office had looked at her in envy when she wore this dress. Now it wasn’t even old enough to be retro.

She looked awkwardly around, just in case she’d missed his entrance. He’d said in the email that he’d arrive at one. It was already twenty past. What was it he’d put? A black suit jacket. A little formal for most lunch dates, but that was probably why he’d picked the café – nothing could ever look out of place here.

And, the small voice of doubt whispered to her, no one can see him here. No embarrassment, no explanations, no one to answer to if he doesn’t come.

She ignored the niggling of doubt and stirred her tea. It was black, no sugar and already strained, but she still stirred it none the less. Habit was habit, and this was hers.

Maybe she should have asked for a photo. It was always embarrassing when she didn’t recognise them. There was always that moment of confusion, as what seemed to be a total stranger stared at her, scrutinising her every detail like a prospective buyer. She’d even once asked one for another cup of tea please, no sugars, add it to the bill.

Needless to say, that meeting had remained awkward.

Maybe there would be a present again. They often bought her things – little trinket from far away lands (yet somehow always made in China), boxes of chocolates from shops she didn’t know, scarves that would only go into the growing pile of things she never wore anymore.

She was getting old.

Another glance at the clock, which was actually a bicycle wheel with ticking hands attached, revealed that it was almost half past. No more than 45 minutes late, that was her rule. By most accounts, it was desperation, but she’d always assumed the best in people. It was her fatal flaw.

She should  recognise him. After all, they’d spent more than 18 years together. While all other relationship had fallen apart, she’d still had him. Or so she’d though. Work, life, midlife – all had only moved them further apart. It had been more than a year since she’d last seen him. Subconsciously, she felt for the gold band around her left ring finger, only to find a light circle of unmarked skin.

All things must come to an end.

She waited.

Suit jacket. No sign. The waiter attempted to juggle some wine glasses for the amusement of his pretty co-worker, only to fail in a spectacular shower of sharp confetti. She allowed herself a smile, catching that of the young waitress. They shared a brief, bizarre moment, before the waitress wandered over.

“Any more drinks?”

“No thank you.” Her voice was weaker than she’d expected – it took two attempts to even get the first word out.

“Well I’d better warn you, we close at two for some cleaning. Is there anyone you’re waiting for?”

She checked the bicycle wheel. It was 1:50.

“No. Well, yes. My name’s Grace. If someone comes for me… well, I can only wait so long.”

The waitress nodded sympathetically. “I know the type. Do you need any help?”

Grace shook her head, reaching for the supportive walker herself.

“Who would be asking about you, just in case?”

The waitress had sparkling green eyes. Grace could remember when her eyes had been that alive, shining on fresh, smooth skin. Now crows feet, wrinkles and bi-focals had masked and disfigured the beauty.

“Oh, just a man named Robert. In a suit.”

“Your husband?”

“Oh no,” she said, shuffling along with the walker’s assistance. Frank was long dead.

“Just my son.”