She understands the protocol: she is off-limits now, the almost-divorced woman Candace, if she holds true to her word, will spurn. Lena imagines Randall’s social calendar is full: her old friends have probably paired him up already. Good catch. So is she.
Without brooding over her decision, Lena gathers her hair into a ponytail, dusts blush on the apples of her cheeks, layers mascara on her eyelashes. Jeans, heels, white blouse, orange leather jacket. Enough.
Vertigo, a neighborhood restaurant and bar, is within walking distance of her apartment and comfortable. In the old days, whenever Randall and Lena walked into a restaurant, she pitied the men and women seated alone at the bar and assumed they were single and sad. If someone cared enough to look closely, they would see that she is; but she doesn’t want anyone’s pity. Once the hostess establishes that she is alone, she points instead of escorts Lena in the direction of the bar. Couples dine at cozy marble-topped tables; singles eat at the bar, the hostess’s taut finger seems to say.
When the muscular bartender glances her way, she asks twice for a seven and seven on the rocks with extra lime before the young man acknowledges her. The lime slips from the rim’s edge and into the honey-colored drink when he sets the cocktail down. Never one to sit at a bar, nurse a drink or two, and chat with a stranger, Lena’s mind is a blank as she searches for small talk. “Thanks,” slips from her lips as the bartender turns away. She examines the menu more to busy her mind than select a late-night snack.
On her right, several young women watch the door in anticipation of a friend or perhaps their dates. They remind her of her single days, the first time around, and the occasional bar-hopping in packs; even on the infrequent business trip she avoided solo eating and drinking. On her left, a man, tie loosened from his unbuttoned collar, preoccupies himself with the newspaper while shoving large forkfuls of linguini into his mouth.
A cool breeze blows down the bar when the restaurant’s huge glass door automatically opens for an amorous couple. The man’s wide hand rubs the woman’s—the much younger woman’s—firm hips, and she does not seem flustered by the contact. When she glances at their faces, Lena blanches at the sight of Candace’s husband and the bimbette from her dinner party. Snatching a section of newspaper from the man one seat over, Lena hunkers behind the pages. That same fear and anxiety that took over her when she ran into Candace at the bookstore now runs through her body again. What if they saw her? Poor Lena: no husband, no family; she’s all alone. Alternating her attention between the paper and the door, Lena forgets that Byron is the one who should hide.
From behind the paper, the bimbette’s infantile voice is exactly as annoying as Lena remembers from the night of the party. The night she remembers, too, that Candace confirmed her friendship. Lena drops the newspaper as Byron and the bimbette pass in front of her and the polished wood bar. “Heyyy, Byron.” She exaggerates her greeting, makes it sweet and syrupy like she would for a long-lost friend, and stares right into Byron’s eyes. If Lena ever tells anyone about the scene before her, she will describe it as a moment from a slapstick movie: the bimbette’s face lights up with recognition and dims just as quickly; Byron’s head swivels from left to right searching the bar for the possibility that his wife is there with Lena.
“Be sure to tell Candace I say hello.”
“I’ll do that,” he says, stepping an arm’s length from the bimbette. “Good to see you, Lena.” Lena is positive that even if Byron were fifteen, maybe ten pounds lighter, he could not move out of the restaurant any faster. As for Candace, all of those women who think that she might be a threat to them, ha. It’s the bimbettes of the world, she thinks, they better watch out for.
“That just made my night.” She turns to the man from whom she grabbed the paper and pushes it back down the bar. He shrugs as if he has seen it all. Lena drops a ten-dollar bill on the counter. The bar has become more crowded with couples. The man with the newspaper is still more interested in reading than conversation. Perhaps some other time, she thinks. Then she will find new friends or a