Photo by Eeshan Garg on Unsplash
The waitress takes our drink order. Ellie’s boyfriend orders a Budweiser. Ellie says “I’ll have the same,” and I just want to slap her because I know – I fucking know – how much she hates beer.
“Southern Comfort on the rocks,” I say. I usually drink wine, but that seems much too cordial for this night. I don’t want to be here. I’m making an effort, albeit minimally, for her.
Over divorces, fresh enough to still sting, Ellie and I had bonded from the moment she showed up in my Pilates class a year ago today. We’d planned to mark the anniversary by busting open a bottle of Trader Joe’s Prosecco, ordering Mandarin Take-Out and binging the new season of “Grace and Frankie.” It wasn’t the first time she’d let the boyfriend upend our plans.
“So, you’re the best friend,” the boyfriend says, sliding his arm around the back of Ellie’s chair. I briefly consider how quickly I might grab my steak knife and sever the digits of his right hand now making tiny circles on her shoulder.
Before I can answer he says, “Did Ellie tell you I took her on her first rock climb last week?”
“Really?” I say to Ellie, who I can’t get on an escalator to the second floor of Nordy’s because she’s so afraid of heights.
Our drinks arrive. I stifle a laugh as she swigs down her beer and tries not to gag. She catches my eye, knows I’m onto her. I wonder what else she’s hidden from him. What tiny seeds of deceit that will blossom with time.
Nobody tells you that when you’re no longer part of a couple, your married friends will dump you like you’ve got Covid. I’d just about given up on finding any new ones.
“Karla runs an art gallery,” she says of me like I’m some big deal, which I’m not. But I know she’s trying to make up here and now I feel just a tiny bit shitty.
“Is that so? I dabble in painting,” he says, grinning and giving her shoulder a little squeeze.
I look at Ellie like Seriously? This guy? Because they’d met when he came to paint her bedroom ceiling after a leak in the roof. But Ellie tosses her head back and hoots like he’s Jerry freakin’ Seinfeld.
A sip of Southern Comfort slips past the lump forming in my throat.
Jayne Martin lives in Santa Barbara, California. She is a Pushcart, Best Small Fictions, and Best Microfictions nominee, and a recipient of Vestal Review’s VERA award. Her collection of microfiction, “Tender Cuts,” from Vine Leaves Press, is available now. Visit www.jaynemartin-writer.com Twitter: @Jayne_Martin. Facebook: Jayne Martin-Author