Perfect Blendship

EMPTY CHAIRS

 

Lyle and I are lovers, comfortably entangled in a spider's web of adoration, pleasure, from which we don't want to escape, not ever. Life is treating us well. He's a successful accountant and I am involved in raising funds for the American Heart Assn. Sometimes I think my work is tougher than Lyle's. There are never enough volunteers, too many people 'already gave' but when I can wangle ten bucks, a thousand bucks from the reticent, my heart feels happy.

 

I'm good at a lot of things besides loving and fund raising. If I say so myself, and I do, I'm a darn good cook. Lyle loves weekends when I wear my white chef's hat and apron that has big pockets and ties in the back. He also likes to watch me 'potchke' in the kitchen, never knowing for sure what I am making, how it will turn out. It won't matter because Lyle will devour it, wipe any gravy that remains on his plate with the heel of the fresh bread I have baked. Before serving us our demitasse au lait and chocolate mousse in the den, I take only enough time to put left overs in the fridge. Then I go to sit very close to him on the sofa. We let the coffee get cold while we get warm and have our dessert upstairs. Morning will be time enough to rinse the plates, fill the dishwasher

 

Tuesdays and Thursdays we give up our exclusivity and go out with  Milt and Millie, Sam and Bertha. We each have a favorite dinner spot, don't muck around looking for new ones. Chez Cinque has wonderful, reasonable wines, always crisp salads and steaming hot bouillon. Their fresh fish au noir draws us like humming birds to honeysuckles. We eat, overeat, drink a bit more wine than we should, sit and let it wear off so no drunkard drives. Letting our friends into our web was a good deal for all of us as they recognize the specialness between Lyle and me and never overstay their welcome.

 

The night of the big snowstorm, December 10, 2009, is a disaster. We know it is coming but don't believe it.  Milt and Millie pick up Sam and Bertha. Lyle and I drive alone. Ooops, I mean 'slide' alone. Only six idiots are out in this mess. Lyle skids into a pile of shoveled snow and we are stuck. The wheels smoke in their effort to pull out. We have no shovel, nothing but our hands and they don't make a dent in the packed snow. A plow passes, makes no attempt to ease our predicament and disappears. We lock the car and start to walk, a distance Lyle believes to me about six blocks. I'm wearing black platform suede shoes which give my freezing toes no heat at all. The wind is blowing wildly, bowing the bare trees almost to the ground. Lyle wants to give me his warm jacket which would leave him in shirt sleeves. I don't accept his offer.

 

We huddle together as close as we can, hug the walls of the few dark shops.  'Lyle, Lyle, there it is, ' Tom's Ribbery.' We each take slow easy breaths, reach the front door and see that the inside lights are very low. A few candles are lit in raffia wrapped empty wine bottles. The door is unlocked.  Applause breaks the stillness when we enter. None of the tables have cloths. Long-faced Tom is sitting at the only occupied table, between Milt and Sam. They recognize the frozen us, we feel the warmth of their bodies and plop down in the two empty seats.
No complaints.

 

We sit there and are grateful, eternally grateful, to our faithful dear friends who are now permanent members of our web site.