“Never let a dream get away. What have you always wanted to do but never gotten around to?”
She watched him watching her react. Everything about the man annoyed her, from his long gray pony tail to his bare feet in Gucci loafers. The aging artist’s hippy veneer was inappropriate for someone his age and obvious station in life. His attempt at studied squalor didn’t fool her a bit. He was the type who pontificates from a penthouse in Barcelona; an aging guru in love with his own voice. What gave him the right to preach at her when she could hardly remember his name? Obviously his manners suffered from the same bad taste as his facade.
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said; his voice suggesting that was exactly what he intended. “But is there nothing you’ve left undone? Nothing you want to do before your time is up?”
“No” she said, trying to fill the silence so she could keep him away. “No, I don’t think so. I’m a happy, fulfilled person.” She took a breath and let it out again to punctuate her statement and convince him she was relaxed. She hoped that would be the end of it. He sat still, one hand in his lap and the other resting on the table faintly stroking the stem of his wine glass. He looked at her as if he could hear an unspoken conversation.
“I didn’t mean to upset you either,” she said, too loud; “although I suspect you don’t believe in satisfaction and have some kind of vested interest in disturbing the peace.”
“Not at all,” he sidestepped with a small smile. “I’m always looking for balance and equilibrium, in art as in life. So there’s no other way you’ve ever wanted to live, say…when you were eighteen…that never happened because things got in the way?”
“Well of course, if you put it like that; everyone runs through the options at that age. But they can’t be taken seriously.” She noticed all the people at their table of eight fully engaged in their own talk, which made her isolation with him more complete.
“On the contrary” he countered. “Every desire growing out of the imagination has the weight of reality because it comes from your own thoughts. If you can dream it, you can live it. Tell me one of yours.”
She had no choice. The only way to get him to leave her alone was to give him what he wanted.
“Okay; when I was little I always wanted to be an actress. Thank heaven I realized I wasn’t meant for the life though. By the time I was eighteen I was headed for marriage and family, which was much more my style. I’ve never looked back.”
“Of course you have” he said without leaving her room to negotiate. “We all do. But it’s more important to live your dreams today. Were you any good as an actress?”
She looked across the table at her husband and saw he’d pulled his focus away from his dinner companion on his left and was redirecting it her way. She smiled, inviting him to join the conversation. He didn’t react. “Yes; I was very good,” she said with an edge to her voice; “but I didn’t want to starve in a fifth floor cold water walkup for the rest of my life.” She was impatient now, continuing to look at her husband and willing him to jump in and save her.
“Bad decision” said the aging hippy, as he picked up the wine glass he’d been stroking. “You can’t predict how your life will turn with such certainty. Suppose it had been fame and fortune in a villa on the Riviera.” He took a long, slow sip from his glass, raised his head to look at her as he swallowed, and put the glass carefully back down on the table. His hand still rested on its base and he watched her. His movements were maddeningly precise.
“Perhaps not.” Her response was weak, which annoyed her. “But there was always the risk it would have been the flat, and I’m not a risk-taker. Never have been” she added, pulling her glass of water toward her and taking a few swallows she pretended to crave. “Where’s our waiter?” she asked, louder than necessary. She twisted around in her seat so she could scan the restaurant, ostensibly in search of a way to order a meal but actually to put her dinner partner behind her for a moment. She needed relief.
“You claim to be risk-averse, yet you chose marriage and family as a lifestyle, which is the biggest risk of all.” She turned back to the table just in time to spot her husband deep in conversation with both of his dinner partners now. The women were talking to each other past him, and the likelihood of getting a word in between their laughter was slim, although she could see he was trying and enjoying the effort. “You should get yourself back onstage” her hippy continued, undeterred by the busboy pouring water and the wine-adjusted volume of table talk. She threw her head back and laughed. Reaching for her own wine glass for the first time that night, she shook her short dark curls as if to aerate her thoughts.
“You talk like a man who doesn’t believe in vows” she said, laughing again and taking a sip of her wine.
“Not so” he countered; “but I choose my commitments carefully.” He looked away from her for the first time since they’d sat down, and toward her husband and his friends on the other side of the table. It was an overt appraisal with an unfavorable outcome.
“Let’s change the subject” she said. “Tell me about your painting. Are you still teaching or has the growing demand for your work made that impossible?”
“We can change the subject” he said, smiling slightly. “And I have no objection to talking about myself.” His smile broadened, giving him an almost congenial expression. “But you should do some acting again before your time is up. You need it and deserve it.”
…Part Two of this short story by Sidney S. Stark will be published in two weeks. Please come back to read it then.