Daphne was rushed; all broken heels, stiff back, and sore smile muscles as she waited for the bus. The show had been a “smashing success” by the gallery owner’s own proclamation and several of her pieces had already sold. Fortunately they were the pieces she’d secretly wanted to sell; proportions not quite right, tiny flaws invisible to the casual viewer, and amateurish composition. They were the mistakes – artistic abortions that collectors treasure when they fall from the womb of someone famous.
Her knee bounced as she craned her neck to look for the bus. When it finally arrived, she was first in line, all but prying the doors open with hands exhausted from too much shaking. Each stoplight was met with a furious eye-roll and another check of the watch that would not stop ticking. People insisted on getting on and off at every stop. Old women, wheelchairs, and all manner of lacksadaisical conversationalists slowly destroyed any hope Daphne had of making it home on time.
She stumbled down from the bus, but caught herself on the fire hydrant. Her portfolio slipped and landed hard on the pavement.
“Shit! Of course…,” she mumbled to herself. She dragged her belongings into the building and pushed the buzzer for the apartment, but Dan would not answer. After at least eleven attempts and on the verge of tears, she resigned herself to the thought of six flights of stairs and that temperamental lock the landlord was always making promises about.
The apartment was spotless. Each and every book and knick knack was in its place, carefully arranged to create the illusion of nonchalance Dan was so fond of. Daphne set her things against the wall as she peered around the corner into their tiny, Formica-drenched kitchen. No Dan. No pots and pans. No “kiss the chef” apron, half-empty beer, dancing and singing along to the Police. She frowned and sighed as her gaze drifted across the room. He had lit every candle they owned and placed them throughout their living/dining room. The stereo was softly crooning Nina Simone and the table was set with their mix-matched dinnerware atop the only picnic tablecloth they owned. Chicken marsala
Daphne walked over to the table and touched the chicken before picking up the glass. Nina’s voice swelled in the room as Daphne went to the window and sat on the bench there. Rain was beginning to fall against the glass and she watched the fat drops run down the window as she hummed along and drank. It soon grew dark. Her glass grew empty, as did the other, and humming became full-fledged singing. The singing slowly gave way to crying as Nina declared “be my husband, and I’ll be your wife.”
Bitterness came creeping in at the edges of her mind. Where the hell was Dan? She was only an hour late. He could have waited. He knew it would be impossible getting out of the show. She’d promised him she’d be home as soon as she could. Why had he gone to all this trouble if he was going to ditch her anyway? Fuck you, Dan. Just fuck you.
Through the tears and the rain she saw someone running down the street toward the apartment. His sweatshirt hood was up to protect from the rain, but it was clearly soaked through. His hands were jammed into this pockets and a large paper package was clenched under his right arm. Daphne’s heart jumped, but she quickly reminded herself of her newfound distaste for Dan and prepared to give him a piece of her wine-soaked mind.
Squeaking tennis shoes, fumbling with keys, and cursing to himself, Dan fought desperately with the door, praying that Daphne wasn’t already home. When the door finally burst open, they stood face to face for a moment; Dan, soaked from head to toe, his elbow scraped and bleeding, clutching the package, and Daphne glaring with an empty wine glass in each hand. His apologies began just as her accusations started, drowning out Nina’s moans of strange fruit and poplar trees.
Dan’s glasses had been slowly fogging up since he came inside and he was quickly blind to the world. Daphne’s yelling slowly turned to crying laughter as she watched his gestures grow larger and voice louder behind now-white eyes. Obviously too upset and proud to admit he had no idea where she was, Dan’s mounting frustration only increased Daphne’s amusement. She let him flail helplessly for a few moments before setting the glasses down and slowly approaching him. Catching both of his arms, she put them around her waist and took his glasses off, setting them on the counter. Dan was still upset.
“…and I made the chicken too early because I thought it would take longer, but the cork wouldn’t come out of the bottle!”
“Dan,” she said evenly.
He stopped and looked at her. “Damn it, Daphne,” he said, “I screwed it up.” Her hand grazed his elbow and he winced.
“You look like shit, dear,” she said and they both smiled. “What the hell were you doing out there?”
He brought the package, ruined by the rain, up to their faces. “I forgot the flowers…”
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