Page 79 of Buttons

The bell above the door chimes, and my head snaps up like it’s attached to a string. Not her. A college student with headphonesand a laptop. I exhale slowly, checking my watch again. 2:46. Fourteen minutes. I’m like a teenage boy all over again. One would think this is my first date rather than meeting my wife. A wife who hasn’t brought up divorce, and I’d like to keep it that way.

At exactly three, the door opens and Elowen walks in. Her green dress flutters as she reaches my table.

“Hi,” I say. “Thanks for coming.”

“Of course.” She sets her purse on the empty chair. “I’ll just order first, if that’s okay?”

“Yes, sure, absolutely.” Too many affirmatives. I’m overcompensating. Watching as she approaches the counter with that straight-backed grace she’s always possessed, I note how Elowen knows the barista’s name. Of course, they chat easily as her order is prepared.

When she returns with her almond milk chai latte, she asks how I’ve been.

“Good. Fine. I’ve been…” I hesitate, weighing the corporate response against the truth. The old Julian would have said “excellent,” regardless of reality. The new Julian is trying something different. “I’ve been working on some things…personal things.”

Her brows rise slightly, but she doesn’t press.

“You already know about my cooking, but I’ve taken up jigsaw puzzles over the past few days,” I admit. “And word games. Crosswords, mostly. I’ve also attempted Sudoku. It turns out I have a very low tolerance for being told I’m wrong by a grid of numbers. After two minutes of giving it a stern talking to, I put my Kindle in the toilet. We’re not on speaking terms.”

“You always did prefer words to numbers, despite your profession. Remember when we did the Monday crossword in bed once? Only once.”

Yes. I can’t believe I’d ever forgotten, but I had. There’s a physical pull in my chest to that random Monday night. I don’t even have to search for the memory; now that I remember, it’s there, filed underPerfect.

“I remember,” I say, my voice dropping. “You stole the pen, a felt-tip that bled through the paper because you kept pausing to think.”

“I wasn’t pausing to think,” she counters, her eyes dancing. “I was waiting for you to stop hyperventilating because I filled in 9-Across without counting the squares first.”

“It was ‘crimson,’” I say instantly. “Seven letters. You tried to fit ‘maroon.’ It was a disaster, El.”

“Crosswords are supposed to be easier on Mondays!” She reaches out, her hand hovering near mine on the table, not touching, but the heat is there. “You were so annoyed, and then you gave up. You laid back, let me ruin the puzzle, and started giving me clues for the rest while I traced the ink on your palm.”

“I didn’t give up,” I correct her, though my heart isn’t in the defense. “I transitioned into a consultant role.”

“You fell asleep after a few minutes,” she whispers, the memory softening her entire face. “That was the only time in our entire marriage I saw your brain actually turn off. I think it was the scotch from earlier that night.”

The silence that follows is light. It’s the feeling of reminiscing. “I loved that night,” I admit. “I don’t know if it was the bed or the alcohol, or you combined with both, but I’d felt so relaxed.”

“I know,” she says. “I could tell by the way you didn’t fix the mistakes the next morning.”

“I’ve been making words out of the letters in ‘Buttons Sanctuary Academy,’” I tell her, offering up a piece of my current madness like a gift.

“Oh, boy.” She grins. “Give me your best one.”

“Academy,” I say with fake seriousness.

Her eyes widen before she playfully slaps my arm with the back of her hand. “Julian! You can’t make words thatarethe original word!”

“I know, I know, I’m kidding,” I say. “My favorite is actuallyremand,or maybementor. I think Meredith’s would becrayons, Leo’sSaturn, and yoursdreams.”

“Oh my God, yes! Those are perfect words for us.”

Elowen

I had agreed to have coffee and talk with my estranged husband because dinner had been so light. It was even—dare I say—fun. And now here we are again, having a casual conversation that is nothing like the ones prior. The ones where Julian spoke at me, rather than with me.

The steam from my chai latte rises in a fragrant swirl, smelling of cinnamon. It’s begun to rain outside, which only adds to the charm of our meeting. Across the table, Julian is watching me as I take the last sip.

“Need a refill?”

“Oh,” I say, surprised that he noticed I’d finished. “That would be great.”