Good Choice

WRITTEN IN STONE

 

We're curled up in bed, spent from our arduous love making. 'Scott, Do you really love me?' my lovely lady asks. I move far enough away from her so I can breathe and reply. 'Didn't I just show you Lauren?' He answer puts doubts in my mind. 'Yes and no. What we have doesn't mean you love me, really love me. You know you can be replaced, don't you?' Scott gives me a sharp wrap on my rear. I can feel his anger and more rising. I'm caught. He's a wild man. Coldly he tells me to shut up. I talk too much. In the morning he is gone.

 

The man in my life, the only man for the last six months, is thirty-six years old. I'm twenty-eight. He's trim, quite good looking and is V.P. in his father's lucrative ladies' high fashion firm. I feel Scott and I are meant for each other while he never brings up the subject.

 

I teach English at Westerson High. My students are 95% American but don't speak English They talk to each other with words that are not yet in the dictionary. How did these idiots make it to high school? I'm tough on them and on myself. I mark papers, plan the week's classes, try to spark some interest in writing. I wait and wait for Fridays when
Scott stays for 2 days and nights. After our quiet dinner and our dessert, we listen to Frankie. Tony. I lean close. 'Scott, this is the last time. I want a definite yes or no. Do you love me?' There is no grabbing, no pawing, no reply. With vehemence in my voice I tell him to go home, don't call me, don't come over. 'Your silence is a clear answer.' His face contorts into an ugly grimace. I am frightened. If looks could kill, I'd be dead. I go on a rampage. 'Don't leave anything. I don't want to find one of your sox under my bed or your briefs wherever you've dropped them.. Scott is angry. His fists are clenched, his lips silent. 'And don't slam the door.' Red daggers fly from his eyes into my aching heart.

 

Mr. Finklestein handles his art students with kid gloves. He stops me in the hallway and asks me to join him for lunch in the cafeteria. It is better than sitting alone so what the heck, why not? Our classes don't jibe so we only meet on Wednesdays. It takes him two more Wednesdays  before he invites me to lunch at The Gables, a quiet, unpretentious place in the suburbs. What the heck, why not. 'Harvey, this is a nice place. I like it here,' I tell him. He smiles and asks me not to call him Harvey. 'I'd rather you call me Hank. It's warmer, friendlier, don't you think, Lauren?' Two more lunches and dinner at The Seasons and we barely know each other. We have just about exhausted art discussions and English grammar, poets.

 

I finish my glass of Pinot Noir. Hank reaches over the table and holds my hand. I don't push it off. After my second Pinot, my mind repeats itself. What the heck, why not? 'Lauren, can I see you two weeks from now? I have to go someplace important but want to see you when I come back on Saturday the tenth?' I smile, enjoy having him kiss my fingers, and tell him, 'What the heck. Why not?'

 

At 5 p.m. as daylight is turning to evening, Hank knocks on my door. I open it and see him holding something heavy and ask, 'What in the world is that?' 'Lauren, will you go into your garden with me? I want to show you what's in here.' 'Sure,  Hank. Why not.' He cuts the cord off, unties a red ribbon from the white gift box and tells me to turn around. 'Don't look until I say O.K.'

 

There is a scratching noise like digging but I do not peep.' It doesn't take long before Hank says, Turn around.' I look and don't see anything.
'No, Lauren, not up there. Look down where I'm pointing,' he says.
I see a smooth brown rock about a foot square. Hanks says, It is carved in stone forever and reads in Old English 'I love you, Lauren.' He asks, 'Will you marry me?'

 

What the heck. Why not?