Twenty Years

She emptied a packet of sugar into her coffee. She had arrived thirty minutes early and selected a booth next to the window. As she slid along the black glossy seat, the friction between her jeans and the synthetic material made a dull screech. She arrived half an hour early. She needed time to compose herself, to act on the offensive. She practiced her breathing—in through the nose, out through the nose—and straightened her sweater, pulling the top closely around her throat. Half an hour.

He called her a week ago. After twenty years, he called. She answered the phone. She didn’t recognize the number. But she answered it anyway— not uncharacteristic. She immediately discerned the voice. The tone had changed slightly, not as deep, smooth; it had lost its edge. But this change must come with age. Yet, something else seemed out of place. His voice lacked its usual self-assurance. His words did not run smoothly; his voice strained around them. She had answered the phone with her usual curt hello. A habit she adopted to make people respect her from the outset, to give her the appearance of a formidable individual. Was the strain in his voice a reaction to this?

“Ellen?” came the response from the other end. Then a crackle. A bad connection? The clearing of the throat?

“Ellen?” The way he said Ellen perplexed her. He never placed a question mark on the end of anything. It was part of his self-confident air, his nauseating charm.

In the conversation that followed, they agreed to meet; he wanted to talk. Talk. In the ten years they were married, he never wanted to talk; he just ordered. She followed. But even now on the phone, he was less assertive than she remembered; he almost bordered on bumbling. Nonetheless, she acquiesced; they would meet.

Twenty years. She was thirty. The white streaks had yet to weave throughout her hair; the lines encircling her eyes were held at bay. She kept her head down when she walked. When she spoke, her voice sputtered before finally warming up. She was bright, but irresolute. Her skin was limpid. She would train herself to grow a thicker skin later. A year earlier she received her doctorate in history, and then she became pregnant. He wanted it; she followed. They had been married for ten years; she resisted, but her resistance always waned. She never came out victorious. (The nerve under her left eye began to twitch. She had to control it; he could use it against her). She gave birth to a boy. They named him Ben—Ben Jr. to be exact. He felt the need to possess a namesake.

Ben Jr. remained in her life for three days. On the third day, she gathered everything she owned (books mostly) and abandoned him with the nanny. She found a job teaching. She published, gave talks, gained an air of deference.

She glanced at her watch, five minutes late. She watched the cyclonic pattern her sugar spoon made on the surface of her black coffee. Her left heel silently tapped the floor. With a slight raise of her hand, Ellen waved over the waiter and requested her check. As she scrounged through her bag in search of a five dollar bill, she didn’t see the young man who entered the diner. Her hair blocked her peripheral view.

“Hi, Ellen?” It was the same voice from the phone.

She raised her brow, accentuating the lines on her forehead. It was Ben, but it wasn’t Ben. He extended his hand; she reciprocated the action

“I’m Ben,” he said.

She smiled, letting the warmth of his hand flow into hers.