The office went quiet.
Then someone knocked.
A young woman appeared in the doorway, pale and trembling.
“Marco, I’m sorry. I know I don’t have an appointment, but my interview got moved to tomorrow.”
Marco stood automatically.
“You were keeping me out.”
I watched him move.
Then I noticed the woman’s hands.
Shaking.
“Have you eaten?” I asked.
She blinked.
“What?”
“When did you last eat?”
Her face reddened. “Yesterday morning.”
Marco stopped.
He hadn’t noticed.
I found crackers and fruit in the staff kitchen and set them in front of her.
“When did you last eat?”
“Interviewers are scary enough without meeting them on an empty stomach.”
She laughed weakly.
Later, after Marco worked through her résumé, she stood in front of the mirror.
“I still don’t feel ready.”
Marco opened his mouth.
I beat him to it.
“Then go scared.”
She turned. “What?”
“I still don’t feel ready.”
“You don’t have to stop being frightened before you’re allowed to begin.”
The woman considered that.
Marco looked at me differently.
Not impressed.
Seen.
***
That evening, we went home.
Our anniversary pasta was still in the refrigerator.
“You don’t have to stop being frightened before you’re allowed to begin.”
Marco reached for his keys.
I assumed he wanted to go out.
Instead, he opened the fridge.
“Can I reheat this?”
“You better,” I muttered. “I spent 40 minutes on that sauce.”
He smiled.
The dessert had collapsed overnight.
The pasta was softer than it should’ve been.
Marco took one bite.
The dessert had collapsed overnight.
“This is really good.”
“It was better yesterday.”
He winced. “Fair.”
We ate quietly for a while.
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Then I said, “I can forgive dinner getting cold.”
Marco looked up.
“I don’t know how to forgive realizing I had to book an appointment to learn who my husband is.”
He nodded.
“I can forgive dinner getting cold.”
No defense.
No promise that he’d never work late again.
I didn’t want one.
His work mattered.
So did we.
“I won’t decide alone anymore that you can always wait,” he said.
That was closer.
His phone buzzed.
Both of us looked at it.
Marco’s hand moved automatically.
Then stopped.
His work mattered.
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He looked at me.
“It’s my client.”
“Interview tomorrow?”
He nodded. “Can I take 10 minutes?”
I glanced at the clock.
“Ten.”
Marco answered without leaving the table.
The woman was panicking.
I could hear only pieces.
Then Marco asked, “What are you afraid they’ll ask?”
A pause.
“The 15-year gap?”
The woman was panicking.
Another pause.
Marco smiled slightly.
“What have you been doing for 15 years?”
Silence.
Then he looked across the table at me.
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I already knew what came next.
Children.
Budgets.
Appointments.
All those ordinary years finally receiving names.
Marco reached across with his free hand.
I took it.
I already knew what came next.
The same work call was happening.
The same marriage still had problems.
Nothing had magically disappeared.
But the food was warm.
Marco was home.
His hand stayed in mine.
And for the first time in a long time, nobody at our table was waiting alone.
Nothing had magically disappeared.
