the heel press

Anne watched the wind blow shards of ice into the west window behind his head and tried to imagine the sound it made. But the dropping of pots onto stoves and mugs into sinks prevailed. Patrons shouted over the noise to each other over. Elbows shook tables and ice-cubes danced in ice-tea.

Marty’s eyes were waved when he spoke. He was excited to tell stories of back-packing in Belgium or wading into Lake Erie. She hesitated to look at his eyes. The waving made her brittle. Nervous. Instead of listening, she was thinking. Not about the bad-idea after-dinner coffee that would keep her up half the night. Not about the woman to her left who was picking her nose with her reading glasses. Not about the little boy who continued to kick his sister despite her wailing and sliding out her chair in pain. Not even about the clever blonde with the sparkly lip-gloss who left most of her blouse unbuttoned to attract attention to her cleavage. Anne didn’t even care that the waiter constantly brought the blonde extra napkins. She examined everything around her in an attempt to distract herself, but it wouldn’t work. She wasn’t really wondering about the sound of the ice on the window either. Instead, she wondered why two people with so little time to spare were swapping histories. In a month he would be in Seattle. In six months she planned to be in Chicago. What was the point or the prize?

She only caught snips of his sentences. Lush fields, crass superintendent, monkey-business. His hair waved, too. Out came her breath and her lips perched to speak. But he spoke first. “For what it’s worth―” Marty straightened his tie.

“What?” Anne asked.

“What?” his brow furrowed.

“What is it worth?” she smiled coyly.

“I can’t say anything romantic if you’re going to keep interrupting me with questions,” he whined with mock annoyance.

She sat back in her chair because he was right, but it was for the best. “Nothing romantic begins with for what it’s worth.”

“For what it’s worth, you are my only hesitation,” he said to his dirty plate.

“Well.” Instantly, she wished that she hadn’t wished he would say precisely that. She moved to find her shoes. I’ve stayed too long. Dinner is over. Tonight’s over. She felt beneath the table with her bare feet. Where the fuck is the left one? He watched amused while she maneuvered in her chair, wriggling back and forth is search of her shoes. To hear him laugh made her flush. She was annoyed, but smiled back. “I have to get up early, so…” She ducked under the table and found the shoe pushed against a table leg. She saw his feet shift.

            He stood to put his jacket on. “You didn’t touch your coffee.”

            “I did, too. I even put cream in it,” she adjusted her shawl on her shoulders. They were small and the shawl kept falling off of them. Why the hell am I wearing this? She wore it because he seemed to like watching it slip off her shoulders.

            As he lifted her shawl back up for her he said, “You dolled up your coffee, but you didn’t drink it. If you had maybe you wouldn’t have to go home so soon.” His tone was matter of fact and his smile delightfully flirtatious.

            “And then you might get to ruin my life.”

            “Ruin,” he said to his shoes as he felt in his pockets, “That’s drastic.” She didn’t expound only slipped her hair over the shawl. She knew she shouldn’t have said ruin; it was after all only their eighth date. “Love it when people say drastic things,” he lied as he threw a tip on the table. When they passed the blonde with her hair in a bun, they both looked at her cleavage.

            Ice rain floated under the patio eaves while she waited for him to get the car. “Miss?”

She folded her arms and flexed her back. We should walk. The bitter cold would make it hard for him to be so pleasant. “Miss?” We both have places to go and we’re only holding each other up. “Miss, you dropped this.” Beside Anne was an elderly man. Perhaps not elderly but entirely decommissioned. Every joint crooked. He stood less than five feet. In the cold she knew he hurt. His lower jaw protruded, but he tried vehemently to suck the lip in. In his hand was her lip gloss.

            “Oh, thank you,” she took it from the man.

            “You’re welcome.” He wore a shaggy coat and his shoes were only sandals wrapped in t-shirts. He proceeded to walk away slow and crooked like an ant trying to swim.

            “Wait―I―” He looked puzzled. She went into the restaurant and picked up her mug. Still warm, she thought. Warm enough. Warmer than ice. She looked around to see if a waiter had noticed. Tried to palm it, but it was nearly impossible. She moved quickly back outside and brought the cup to the stranger. As soon as the night air hit the ceramic cup it attacked the only heat left. “Here. There’s. There’s cream in it.”

            “Oh,” he laughed, when he looked into the cup. He seemed happy, but not necessarily surprised.

            Anne wondered if he could be insulted. “It was mine. I didn’t want it so―”

            “That’s great of you. It’s brisk tonight.” She nodded at him, but immediately wanted to get away. Marty pulled up to the curb. Exhaust curled through the sleet as the wind caught it and threw it away. “It’s delicious. Mmm,” the man made too much of an effort to show his gratitude. It was only making Anne more self-conscious. “For this, dear, I’ll even dance at your wedding,” the man said gesturing to the car and sipping at the cup. Although it hurt to open her mouth in the cold, she asked, “Which wedding? First? Second? Third?” The man couldn’t hear what she said because she didn’t really want him to. She told the stranger goodnight, “Look’s like you got yourself a new cup, too.” But everything she said to him felt unsuitable, talking to him at all was impossible for her. She walked to the car.

            “Hello, again,” the painful playfulness still in his voice.

            “It’s freezing.” She laced her fingers together, held them up to her mouth, blew on her gloved hands and blessed the wool for trapping the hot air. Her body shook almost uncontrollably, but her embarrassment flushed her with prickly heat.

            “I’m trying to warm it up in here.”

            “―” She blew into her gloves again.

            “Does the shawl help very much?”

            “Not really. I guess.” The shawl was entirely impractical, but it looked so dainty with her dress. She never looked dainty or even the least feminine in a heavy, winter coat. He watched her wipe the hair from her face. He wanted to touch her. But those desires were replaced with idle phrases. Cold weekend. I never liked beets. I had a Scottish terrier when I was a kid. Where is Sausalito? My little sister stabbed me with a pencil once. They were only making things worse by sharing these strange anecdotes. Each night when they slept alone in their respective apartments their egos attacked their growing infatuation.

There were several people loitering outside of her apartment building, when he parked. He asked to walk her, “Just to make sure you get in okay.” The skin against her ribs rejoiced. She did her best to ignore it.

“Yeah, come on,” she said quickly and cheerfully. He promised his tightening stomach that he would not go inside.

They walked down the block. Moving through the night air made every pore ache. Every bone asked every bone, “Where in the hell are we going?” Wiser blood heard these questions, but couldn’t answer. It was moving too quickly through their lungs and hearts to reveal intent. Even then, would calcium understand? A mineral that knows next to nothing of hearts.

Anne could see five years ahead of her. She’d have a boutique. Or maybe go to design school. Maybe both. However she hadn’t made anything in weeks. Instead she remembered that when Marty pronounced w’s his nostrils pinched. They were like soldiers stacking sandbags to hide from one another. But it was pointless because they shared a trench.

She turned to give him a hug. This will happen too quickly, she thought.

“Okay, goodnight,” he kissed her gently and backed away.

            “I’ll call you tomorrow,” she said. They each wondered, Which one of us wants that phone-call more? Her stomach already ached for a reprise of that goodnight kiss.

Through the door and towards the stairwell, she wouldn’t turn to watch his back. Too many backs. Pulling off her shoes she sighed brightly. The jingling of her keys was familiar and comforting. She stopped at the foot of the stairs and leaned against the oak banister. Above the landing, a stained-glass window loomed pitifully dull in the darkness. The ice on the window, when the wind blew just right, sounded like a moth caught inside a glass lamp. Her shoes dangling from her hand she listened to the tick-tick-tick on the glass. The more the moth struggles the closer it flails to the candlewick. Whether it’s flirting with fate or prepared to die, the moth will silently burn despite immense pain. She dropped her shoes and straightened her ankles. Even the single most exquisite pain should never be missed. Running back down the hall and out of the building hoping Marty hadn’t driven away yet. Flesh, linoleum, and finally frozen ground pounded together snapping vessels in the soles of her feet. So often things are precisely what they seem.