Love & Darts (9781937316075) by Nath Jones Read Free Book Online Page A

dies.
    You cannot admit gratitude, satisfaction,
glee, or any spirit of karmic vengeance. That would be wrong. And
yet. What you feel is that whole fantastic May blue sky filling you
with renewed life.
    You smile your liberated loneness into the
blue, alert and ready to wipe that smug smirk off your face if the
waiter walks by. And you should do it now anyway because your
partner will be here soon. He won’t understand if you’re sitting
there all giddy, happy, and free. So. Sit up. Stop gloating about
your well-deserved freedom under the big blue sky. Just be glad,
proportionally glad, that it’s not tropically humid today. That the
air is easy. And that you are no longer alone dealing with your
dead-dad-grief shit. You’re you. A person who can say to himself:
I’m waiting to meet my lover here.
    River pebbles are the floor of the courtyard
and square stepping-stones make a path for the waitress to make her
rounds like a geisha bending her head to miss pruned cherry
branches burdened with their blossoms. The tables are old iron and
glass. The menus are beautiful, written in an almost illegible
script. The fountain makes it difficult to eavesdrop. The wine is
white and doesn’t mind at all.
    He’ll be late.
    So you have time to recover and find
yourself again in the moment.
    Take the pill. At least take half of it.
    Don’t you realize? You’re the first person
now.
    And, yeah, I’m glad to be back in New
Orleans. There is a lady dressed in a bright pink Irish linen dress
and a broad white hat walking two greyhounds. They are like deer
and stop to stare at me through the cast iron fence. She moves on
easily and they follow, leaving the good restaurant smells behind.
The gentleman at the corner table chews his cigar and snaps a
newspaper in reaction to an editorial. A waitress appeases him with
an artichoke and watercress salad. He puts the paper away and
thanks her. “Thanks.” The cigar, not quite out, lies forgotten in
an ashtray. The smell reminds me of my uncle, my father’s older
brother who shook uncontrollably, silent through the funeral.
    But I’m not home anymore. I’m here where two
sisters celebrate a thirty-something birthday with too many drinks
in the afternoon. They don’t usually drink in the afternoon, you
can tell. They probably don’t usually drink at all. But it’s a
thirty-something birthday and so the table rattles between the
slipping elbows and the patio stones. They laugh easily and look
alike when they do.
    Shadows dance across the white napkin in my
lap. The leaves of the pecan tree are high above my head, so the
shadows are subtle; the grays smudge into each other. Their dance
is a flirtation with the wind and falls into my napkin. Half an
alprazalam half an hour ago helps sooth the shadows. And I
succumb.
    “Have you decided?” She is beautiful like a
raven on a glacier in the sun. And I cannot look at her. She is a
dancer just getting through school with this job. We’ve spoken
before. She knows my friend—my partner, my lover: well, I guess he
is my friend—better.
    “No. I’ll just wait to order. Except for a
smidge of spaghetti. Can I just have some plain noodles on a fancy
tiny dish with a little pesto? Call it a salad and forgive me.”
    “Sure.” She fills up the water again. “Are
you doing okay?”
    I smile.
    And she gives up. “More wine?”
    “Bring the rest of this bottle and chill
another. He’ll be here soon.”
    The gentleman in the corner decides on
dessert. It seems he has opted out of the main course in order to
spend his calories on a piece of pie. Good decision.
    A couple, tourists, are seated between me
and the fountain. I was watching the fountain so now I am watching
the tourists. They are looking around. Looking up at the pecan
tree. Looking up at the striped awning that sags over the entry to
the courtyard. Looking over at the antique ironwork fountain.
Looking at the tiles on the restaurant walls. Looking at the detail
in the cast iron