From Time to Time

From Time to Time

By Cooper Baltis

“Will you read me that story?” he asked, closing his eyes and adjusting his head on the pillow.

“Which one?”

“The one you have been working on. You know, the one loosely based on us.”

“But it’s not finished yet,” she replied, turning her body towards him and tracing her finger along the outline of his chin.

“But you’ve been working on it for almost a year now,” he said, yawning.

“I know. I just…it’s just that, well, the story is still in a developmental stage. It’s still premature.”

“Developmental stage? Premature? You writers are so crazy. How are other people supposed to read your work if you’re afraid to read it yourself?”

“I’m not afraid to read it. I’m quite proud of it actually. I just want it to be perfect, that’s all,” she said, dropping her hand and rolling to her other side.

“Alright, if you say so. I’m tired anyway.”

The next morning came and went.

The next week came and went.

The next month came and went.

The next year came and went.

Still, she never revealed to him the story she had been working so diligently on.

“Well can you at least tell me the name?” he asked one cold winter day, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“The story is called Two Lovers,” she replied.

“And you say it’s loosely based on us?” he smirked as he added creamer from a plastic container with a bright red top. “Sounds like it’s tightly based on us.”

“I’ve never heard someone refer to something as ‘tightly based.’”

“You’re a writer. You should be used to new phrases.”

“Antimeria and neologisms?” she asked, leaning over the kitchen counter on her elbows and smiling.

“If you say so.”

As he slurped from his cup of coffee, he reached out to graze her elbow with his fingers.

The winter changed to spring.

The spring changed to summer.

The summer changed to fall.

The fall changed to winter.

It happened all over again.

Time passed quickly and slowly, as it is prone to do from time to time. The days merged together, the seasons blended, the arguments came and went, friends appeared and disappeared, the actors on television aged, clothes grew tight and threadbare, newspapers yellowed.

He proposed to her one evening after taking her to a small sauce-stained Italian restaurant on the edge of the Bronx.

 He had thought to call ahead and have the restaurant participate in the proposal but quickly tossed the idea out. She was a consummate critic of excessive sentimentality, a minimalist with a disdain for kitsch. She was the type who didn’t want to live in some fantastical movie existence, didn’t care for a Disney ending. According to her, those things existed only in fiction. He knew her well enough to know that. At least he thought he did.

The dinner went well, the food came and went as if it were on wheels, the wine in their glasses stayed full, the bill continued its steady climb up the credit card ladder to an unknown peak. He didn’t mind, money comes and money goes.

She wondered why he’d decided on this restaurant, wondered why he was wearing his best suit, wondered why he’d shaved, wondered why he’d put on cologne. He seemed nervous, glancing back and forth across the restaurant as if an ex-girlfriend sat in a booth nearby. As if there was something she couldn’t see. He kept wiping the sweat off his brow and readjusting his posture, harrumphing and looking down at his watch.

She took the last bite of tiramisu and watched in slow motion as he dropped to one knee.

A ring was procured, her hand was softly grasped, a black velvet box snapped opened, she found herself saying ‘yes’ before the question could escape his mouth, she found herself giggling, she found herself with a sparkling ring on her finger. She found herself with a husband.

Time continued to slide by as if someone had hooked it to a rope and dragged it through the warren streets of transient memories.

They moved in together, they married, they honeymooned, she published her third novel, he got a job promotion, they redecorated the apartment, his father died, they prepared a room for the baby, they had a girl named Elle.

One day, after putting Elle to sleep, she cuddled in next to him on their living room sofa.

“You still working on that story?” he asked suddenly.

“Which one?” she replied.

“Two Lovers.”

“You haven’t asked me about that in quite some time,” she said. “What made you think of it?”

“It just came to me. I’ve been meaning to ask you about it. So…”

“So…?”

“Well do you have anything to read me? You must be finished with it by now.”

“No, but I can tell you the two characters have had a child.”

He laughed, “Sounds familiar.”

“Most things do.”

“So is it a boy or a girl? Let me guess…” he sighed.

“Ok, guess,” she smiled faintly up at him.

“Why can’t you just tell me? It’s been…I think almost seven years now. Eight years maybe?”

“I want it to be perfect, that’s why,” she said.

“Will it have a happy ending?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“You should know by now,” he sighed and laid his head on top of hers, smelling her freshly shampooed hair.

Days continued to fall like dominos.

Hours blended together, clocks ticked incessantly, morning yawns, movies before bed, expanding waistlines, new wrinkles, new bills, new worries, new triumphs.

Time skipped like a stone thrown across a vast stream.

She published her fourth novel to rave reviews and he received another promotion at work. They had a son named Elijah and Elle grew into the dresses her mother used to wear when she was a girl. A family dog was purchased, a car was leased, computers, televisions and cell phones were replaced. The years piled on like sacks of flour.

One day, while having a heated discussion at work, tragedy struck, as it is prone to do from time to time.

He fell to the floor, his right hand on his heart, his trashcan toppled over, his pencil holder swiped off his desk, his co-worker’s mouth agape. He was rushed to the emergency room. Hands in starchy plastic gloves moved him onto a bed. Doctors hovered around him. He closed his eyes and drifted away.

He awoke with a plastic tubes sticking out of his nose and chords taped to his arm. She rushed to the bedside and grabbed his hand.

“Hi sweetie…” he whispered with a hoarse voice.

“Oh,” she sobbed. “How do you feel?”

“Pretty good for a guy waking up in the hospital with tubes sticking out of his nose,” he said, trying to move.

She laughed through her tears, “Don’t move, just relax. I’m right here. The kids are with my mom.”

“Hey, whatever happened to that story you were writing?” he asked, closing his eyes and resting on the pillow.

“Why? Why are you asking me right now?”

“It just came to me…while I was out.”

“I couldn’t finish the story,” she cried, holding his hand.

“But why?” he asked, looking down at her from his hospital bed.

“Because it was about us.”

“You’ve told me that for years now…”

“I didn’t want the story to end. I mean, I don’t want the story to end…”

“All stories must end, you know that.”

“I know, but not like this.”

“Well, you should tell me about it someday,” he said faintly, resting his eyes.

“I will…someday when it’s finished.”