That Thing Where We Pretend

Fiction by Jeff Harrell

We do that thing where we pretend.

It’s just one of those coincidences. My meeting ran long. I’m craving meatloaf. Your college roommate is in town just for the day.

We end up in the same restaurant.

We do that thing where we pretend. I introduce you to my business partner. I stumble over what to call you. He doesn’t notice. You introduce him to your friend. The two of them make politely flirtatious small-talk. We stare at each other through the middle.

We do that thing where we pretend. We pretend that everything’s normal. We pretend we’re not still angry at each other. We pretend we don’t wish every day that one of us had had the guts to apologize.

The restaurant is crowded. You start to lead your friend back to the bar. Mark invites you to join us. You want to say no, but you can’t figure out how to do it politely. Neither can I. Natalie smiles more than the usual number of preternaturally white teeth. Mark pulls out her chair for her. She sits daintily.

You roll your eyes when you think no one’s looking. Then you see me. Your cheeks flush pink. Without meaning to, we smile at our private joke. Even after everything, we still have our private jokes.

Mark talks about himself, like he always does. Natalie bats her eyelashes and laughs at all the right moments. I can tell by the look in your eye that this is what she always does.

Then everything gets quiet, and everyone looks at me. Mark asked me something. I don’t know what it was. I didn’t hear a word of it. I stammer. I change the subject.

You see through all of this.

We do that thing where we pretend. We pretend nothing happened. We pretend that we didn’t, just for a moment, understand each other the way no two people ever have, or ever will again.

Lunch takes too long. I’m going to be late. You’re looking at your watch. Mark and Natalie aren’t even trying to include us in the conversation any more. I call the waiter over. Slip him my credit card so no one can see. You smirk at me. I’ve used this trick on you before, so many years ago. The receipt comes. I sign it.

I interrupt, feeling like an ass. I say I have a meeting, that I have to go. You say you need to get back to the office. Mark and Natalie make perfunctory goodbyes. As you stand, Natalie gives you a hug and makes you swear to call her later. Mark shakes my hand, gives me a look that says I can’t possibly leave fast enough.

The restaurant is crowded. Getting out of my seat is tricky. I orbit the table, trying too hard not to step on anyone’s toes or back into a waiter. I’m not looking when I jog you with my hip just as you’re emptying your water glass. Ice collapses in a miniature avalanche. It pours out of the glass and down the front of your blouse.

“Oh God,” I say. “I’m so incredibly sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you say, blotting yourself with your napkin. “I should have been paying attention.”

“I’m sorry,” I repeat, not knowing what else to say.

“My fault,” you say. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, looking you right in the eyes for the first time in as long as I can remember.

A moment passes that no one notices but us. Then you say, “I’m sorry too.”

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