We are in Radiology. This appointment has consumed us for weeks. We’re anxious. The pain continues, interrupting sleep, sex, sensibilities.
“Okay, Joseph, you’re all set! You pre-registered, so no forms. Go ahead and have a seat, sir,” the receptionist says. I peek at her computer screen and see she’s browsing floral dresses on sale at Old Navy. Her previous searches include magenta one-piece bathing suits and a white gauzy cover-up.
You did pre-register, which comes as no surprise. Always the one to pre-register. To read the fine print, to follow up, to check things and check them again. It’s precisely what I love and don’t love about you.
We take a seat and I imagine our receptionist in Miami or Negril. She’s wearing a cornflower blue sun hat.
Thirty years ago we were on our honeymoon in Cefalù, Sicily, picking fresh figs in the orchard. Red pulp on our lips, mosquito bites on our ankles. We knew the bugs were bad that day but couldn’t resist the fruit. But that was then. Today, we are in Radiology.
On our drive home, we stop at the diner. I watch you look over the menu. I want you to have a hot breakfast. I want the coffee you’re served to be from a fresh pot and for the morning sun to stream through the window that hugs our booth and for it to reflect off the sugar packet holder.
“Did they play music? I mean during the actual test,” I ask you and then add, “Did you close your eyes when you were inside?” I want to know that it was Judy Mowatt on repeat. And that your eyes were closed because you were asleep, pain-free and dreaming.
You shake your head no to both questions. And I can tell from the shake, I asked two questions too many.
I want you to be okay.
There is so much to pick from on this menu which is precisely what I love and don’t love about diners.
I think about how marriage is just a series of decisions made in moments, hours, sometimes ones that you make through decades. To pick the figs. To ask the questions.
And today, too, decisions. Yours, mine and those of our soon-to-be-vacationing receptionist.
“I’ll have the Eggs Benedict,” you say to our server and then she turns to me. “And you, dear?”
“I’ll take a Greek omelet with rye toast, please.” But the whole time I’m thinking this: I’ll have the usual. The tenacious, enduring and beautiful usual.
Kathy Curto is the author of Not for Nothing-Glimpses into a Jersey Girlhood. She lives in the Hudson Valley with her family and can be found in her front yard, on most mornings, replenishing her Little Free Library with donated books. This practice has become one of her daily delights. For more information on Kathy’s work please visit: www.kathycurto.com
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