Chantilly
by Ellen Marcantano
Chantilly’s hostess is new and doesn’t recognize me. “Please inform Mr. Dawson that Mrs. Dawson is here.” Her eyes run up and down my black sequined gown while she speaks into the phone. Chaz, the waiter, approaches me with arms outstretched and a warm hug.
“Wendy, how we’ve missed you.” I won’t let him see me cry.
He escorts me through the crowded Saturday night dining room to a secluded corner table, adorned with a white rose. A long slow smell of its scented petals conjures up marital memories of joyous times. Chaz brings me a dirty martini to anesthetize the bee stings in my stomach lining.
Daniel exits the kitchen and strides towards me with confidence. He should, Chantilly is now his. Anger festers deep and sits low and I want to cut him with the serrated knife perched beside my dish. I fake a smile.
“Hi.” I lean back into the velvet chair and sip my drink.
“Wendy, you’re radiant. I love that gown on you.”
We exchange joyless air kisses. We’re silent about us and talk about the packed restaurant.
“ I ordered the broiled salmon for us, I hope that’s okay?” Daniel, always the gentleman. Wonder if divorce is a side dish special?
A few tables away from us, a slim redhead sits alone, and sips a glass of wine. The flame from the candle flits on her flawless face. A dirty martini fueled rage bubbles in my throat, and my finger plays with the tip of the steak knife. A drop of blood soaks into the white linen napkin.
“Why is she here, Daniel?” Couples glance to look at where the shout comes from.
You lean into me. A stale feminine scent clings to your shirt.
“Don’t make a big deal out of this, Wendy, she works tonight and is on a break. I couldn’t change the schedule. It shouldn’t be a problem.”
“It is a problem, Daniel. I gave birth to this restaurant, nurtured it and made it successful. Now, I’m a stranger here. Chantilly is our child and you got sole custody.” I try not to ramble. My eyes are wet.
“Well, Wendy, I suppose I have a better lawyer.” You mock me with a flirtatious smirk. “Besides, the house is yours.”
The brown manila envelope in my purse stares at me. It carries an incendiary device set up by our lawyers after a year of failed negotiations. It will blow up and bring nine years of us to ashes with a signature – yours. A recent addition in my life lies next to the envelope – antidepressants.
“We don’t have to divorce, Daniel. I still love you. Please come home.” I detest myself for the final knee plant grovel.
Glacial pupils in your eyes are disinterested pinpoints. Your gaze wanders to her. You look down at the table and finger the petal on the rose.
Your silence confuses me. Undecided? Or another mixed message to keep me off balance? Our marriage is a fantasy, built on sand. It runs through my fingers.
Chaz brings dinner and I pick at the salmon. Daniel attacks his food like a panther with a fresh kill.
I pass you the envelope over a congealed raspberry sherbet. You raise an eyebrow in surprise. Your aloofness irritates me as you set it down and sip your coffee.
You reach inside your jacket pocket and finger a gold pen. A flip of the pages and a flash of your signature across page six leaves a trail of wreckage. It’s over.
I take the papers and stand up to leave. Before I go, I cross the dining room to her table. She stares up at me, unsure whether to flee or fight. Closeup, her nose is lopsided, and I snicker.
I place the bottle of antidepressants in front of her.
“I don’t need these pills, but you will.” She watches me wave to Chaz, and leave Chantilly for the last time.
Chantilly’s hostess is new and doesn’t recognize me. “Please inform Mr. Dawson that Mrs. Dawson is here.” Her eyes run up and down my black sequined gown while she speaks into the phone. Chaz, the waiter, approaches me with arms outstretched and a warm hug.
“Wendy, how we’ve missed you.” I won’t let him see me cry.
He escorts me through the crowded Saturday night dining room to a secluded corner table, adorned with a white rose. A long slow smell of its scented petals conjures up marital memories of joyous times. Chaz brings me a dirty martini to anesthetize the bee stings in my stomach lining.
Daniel exits the kitchen and strides towards me with confidence. He should, Chantilly is now his. Anger festers deep and sits low and I want to cut him with the serrated knife perched beside my dish. I fake a smile.
“Hi.” I lean back into the velvet chair and sip my drink.
“Wendy, you’re radiant. I love that gown on you.”
We exchange joyless air kisses. We’re silent about us and talk about the packed restaurant.
“ I ordered the broiled salmon for us, I hope that’s okay?” Daniel, always the gentleman. Wonder if divorce is a side dish special?
A few tables away from us, a slim redhead sits alone, and sips a glass of wine. The flame from the candle flits on her flawless face. A dirty martini fueled rage bubbles in my throat, and my finger plays with the tip of the steak knife. A drop of blood soaks into the white linen napkin.
“Why is she here, Daniel?” Couples glance to look at where the shout comes from.
You lean into me. A stale feminine scent clings to your shirt.
“Don’t make a big deal out of this, Wendy, she works tonight and is on a break. I couldn’t change the schedule. It shouldn’t be a problem.”
“It is a problem, Daniel. I gave birth to this restaurant, nurtured it and made it successful. Now, I’m a stranger here. Chantilly is our child and you got sole custody.” I try not to ramble. My eyes are wet.
“Well, Wendy, I suppose I have a better lawyer.” You mock me with a flirtatious smirk. “Besides, the house is yours.”
The brown manila envelope in my purse stares at me. It carries an incendiary device set up by our lawyers after a year of failed negotiations. It will blow up and bring nine years of us to ashes with a signature – yours. A recent addition in my life lies next to the envelope – antidepressants.
“We don’t have to divorce, Daniel. I still love you. Please come home.” I detest myself for the final knee plant grovel.
Glacial pupils in your eyes are disinterested pinpoints. Your gaze wanders to her. You look down at the table and finger the petal on the rose.
Your silence confuses me. Undecided? Or another mixed message to keep me off balance? Our marriage is a fantasy, built on sand. It runs through my fingers.
Chaz brings dinner and I pick at the salmon. Daniel attacks his food like a panther with a fresh kill.
I pass you the envelope over a congealed raspberry sherbet. You raise an eyebrow in surprise. Your aloofness irritates me as you set it down and sip your coffee.
You reach inside your jacket pocket and finger a gold pen. A flip of the pages and a flash of your signature across page six leaves a trail of wreckage. It’s over.
I take the papers and stand up to leave. Before I go, I cross the dining room to her table. She stares up at me, unsure whether to flee or fight. Closeup, her nose is lopsided, and I snicker.
I place the bottle of antidepressants in front of her.
“I don’t need these pills, but you will.” She watches me wave to Chaz, and leave Chantilly for the last time.