A Conversation

The old pine dinner table has four sides, on one side, Bethany Fitch. Her oversized grey t-shirt swaying toward the singular sliding glass door leading to the backyard. The alluring moonlight shines through the door, aiming to be reflected off Bethany’s porcelain plate, but instead blocked by the back the back of her four-year-old daughter Lily’s head. With every bite of the lasagna she wishes wasn’t in the Randy’s General Store freezer aisle less than a week ago, she’s brought back, back to the picnic with her husband. The conversations she and Amadeus had were as colourful as their outfits on that day. They laughed about how the buffalo plaid picnic blanket was five sizes too small as they took up every millimetre of the soft fabric. Amadeus cooked up his famous tortellini, famous to Bethany that is, with its signature overcooked marinara sauce and slightly crispy pasta shells. That was far from her first time tasting it but every time she digs into it, she conveniently forgets that fact. 

Bethany is whisked away from her quiet evening with the harsh scream of her daughter. She picks Lily up and cradles her over her shoulder, rhythmically tapping her back gently, before going to put her to bed. On the third side of the table, Bethany’s current husband sits, Pete. He’s contemplating putting the lasagna in the microwave a bit longer, but decides against it, settling with the partially warm meal.

“Can you pass the salt?” Pete asks unaware that his wife has left the table. He decides to wait until she gets back and fills one of the three empty seats facing him.

Bethany walking back to the table from her daughter’s room stops abruptly. She looks at the deflated meals on opposite sides of the table, revealed through the stale fluorescent bulb above, then stares towards the now unobstructed moonlight leading her eyes out the backdoor. She contemplates for a moment and walks toward the backdoor, but even the moon could see that her strides lack purpose. When she meets the door, she echoes her actions from all the years previous and shuts it. Soon after the moonlight loses its courage. Bethany is hungry, so she sits back down, and keeps eating.

“Can you pass the salt?” Pete repeats.

“Sure.” Bethany responds and passes him the salt.

The fourth side of the table facing the now sombre back door was, is, and will continue to be, empty.