There were only three tables at the Dog, or the Union, whichever they called it now. That and five stools by the bar. Sitting by the bar meant making regular eye contact with the greasy twentysomething, and she didn’t want to do that, so she sat down at the table farthest from a window. After a few minutes a menu and a beer was delivered to her table. “On the house. You look like you need it,” said the bartender.
Great. Not only are you a failure, you’re also not hiding it well. “Thank you,” she said out loud. Maybe he was a burnout, but a nice burnout was better than… well, a lot of things a successful person might be. As she nursed the drink she went down the list of everything she might have done wrong in the last twenty years. Terry had been too absent, number one. Except that was his mistake and not hers, and she was in a masochistic mood. Besides, being absent paid for their house and cottage to boot. She had been too strict with her childrens’ diets. Their snacks in grade school hadn’t been sugary enough and this was Rachel’s way of rebelling. Possible, but it seemed too elaborate.
“Good afternoon.” Miranda got ready to re-re-adjust her opinion of the bartender so that she could tell him very firmly that she actually did not need anything else, thank you, and really only needed him to leave her alone.
But the person standing beside her little table was not the greasy twentysomething. It was a man of her own age, or at most a few years older. He was well dressed in the classic professorial style. That meant he had a sweater vest that would be absurd on anyone else and a brown blazer over some khakis. His hair was solidly brown, thinning, and he had a bit of a paunch, but compared to some of the instructors she’d had in her time at Wilson he was practically a supermodel.
“Oh,” she said. “Hello, I’m sorry. Did I take your spot? I didn’t realize.”
“No, I was just wondering if you wouldn’t mind some company.”
No thank you, she was going to say. She knew what men in bars, even older men in student bars, wanted when they asked a woman if she wanted company. On further reflection she decided she absolutely needed a sane sounding board right at the moment. Though maybe you shouldn’t give him all the details, she thought. “Sure,” she said, not wanting to be too eager. She was still a married woman.
“Thanks.” He set down his cup of tea first and then took the chair next to hers. He was tall, and she was tall, and so their knees bumped under the table before he adjusted his spot. “Sorry,” he murmured, and then, “I’m Jack Howard, by the way. Are you alright? You look a little red in the face.”
That would be the vodka shots. Don’t mention those either, instructed her mental lawyer. She took in a deep breath and composed herself. “It’s just been a long day, and it’s barely started,” she said. “Ah, I’m Miranda. Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude.”
“I didn’t think you were. What’s going on?”
Miranda drummed her fingers on the table. Where to even begin?
