Jumpstart

The dust hadn’t had a chance to settle, but we went out anyway, because we’d made plans and because we thought going through the motions might put us in gear, like rolling a stalled stick shift downhill to jump start it.

We found a neighborhood bar and grill and blurted our drink orders before the bartender could even ask us what we wanted.

It had been a rough few days. The bickering had been nonstop. There had been a few skirmishes and one fight, the kind we used to have when the kids were very young and we felt so deprived, each of us resenting the other for not being more nourishing, but both of us too weary to give each other anything.

The drinks made us relaxed and chatty and before we knew it we were having a good conversation and enjoying our meal. Cruising in second gear.

Three women slid onto the stools at t the end of the bar nearest to us. Dressed to kill.

“I wouldn’t want to be back there,” I said to F, “hanging out at a bar with my girlfriends on a Saturday night, hoping to meet Mr. Right. I can’t even imagine dating at this point in my life,” I said. He was half-listening and half-watching the television on the wall. “Frankly, I don’t know how I’d meet someone if I became single.” 

We ordered another round.

Then we paid the check and walked to the concert, holding hands tentatively, silently, staying our course, downhill.