Grace Period

It didn’t matter if she did it before her makeup or after; it didn’t matter if it was simply toast or a full plate of pancakes and bacon and eggs. During breakfast his wife slowed down her rushed morning pace. He doubted she noticed. He knew what it meant though, and it wasn’t that she was easily nauseous. It was a gift to herself. 

Although she needed to get to work in thirty minutes and she could eat her toast and coffee in the car, she toasted the sourdough until it was perfect. She let the salted butter melt into its every pocket and added a thin layer of raspberry jam over that with a satisfying scrape of her knife. When she bit into it she closed her eyes. For that moment the two of them were alone as she floated within her self-carved, bread-shaped time.

Slowness could be such a gift. He watched the corners of her mouth tick up when she swallowed and knew he could close his own eyes and know the exact pattern of her delight: opening her eyes, speeding up for two more bites, curtailing herself by nibbling at the crust instead, humming with delight, telling him he had to try some, but if he tried to have hers she would clarify your own. He didn’t close his eyes.

When she finished, he said, “Don’t go in today.”

Her car keys paused in the air, gently swinging on her finger. She looked at him in disbelief, her hair already tied back, in her company t-shirt and blue-jeans and her own socks that read HOWDY over and over the picture of a duck in a cowboy hat. “Call in? Why?”

He smiled and shut his laptop, which had been dark anyway, up on the kitchen bar. “For fun.”

She snorted and pulled the keys into her palm. She circled around the kitchen to the living room, and sat on the floor. “What are you talking about? Fun’s for weekends. I can’t call in this late.” She grabbed her sneakers and began to pull them on.

He got up and sat down on the floor with her. He laid a hand over her moving one. “You’ve called in sick this late before.”

She looked toward him with confused green eyes. “That was different,” she said. “I was sick.”

“Come on,” he prodded. He curled his hand around hers. “It’ll be like when we skipped out on almost the entirety of American history to get Dan’s and watch Star Trek.”

“And we both agreed that was a horrible waste of years of college debt.”

“Mm, I’m not so sure anymore. I learned a lot from Spock.”

 “Spock would not approve of this,” she said, but he could hear the waver in her voice. She would give in to him soon. “I only have so many sick days.”

“I was thinking…” He looked up casually as if he really was thinking, then cut his gaze back to her. “Sugar Wade won’t have a line during the week.”

“Sugar Wade?” she asked him with open desire, as if she could already taste the hourly-baked croissants made with grass-fed butter. She stared at him intently. “What’s gotten into you?”

He smiled at the spark of excitement in her eyes. “We can afford a day off. I think it’s crazier to be stuck at home helping people turn it off and on again when I could be having smoked salmon on spiced focaccia bread.”

She smiled in return. She had tiny, pale lips, but when she smiled it exposed a joy so large and brilliant it was a wonder they kept it contained. “I need to change.”

***

They drove through an alternating landscape of green canopies of pecan trees, wilting hot grass, bike lanes, and juice bars that was Austin. The mix of green and cement, of chopped shadows and bright day, of people, rushed by their car, which was blasting Donna Summer. Grace had a weakness for her; she had used Last Dance as her final choreography project at school. The wind of the open window made her hair flow over her shoulder, which was moving up and down dramatically to the beat. It was going to get hopelessly tangled. She didn’t notice, turning to him suddenly and mouthing the lyrics for a beat or two with the stage presence of a pop star. She noticed nothing when she got like this. 

He was sure she did have stage presence and good timing and dancing skills, she had won awards for these things before. But he was basically blind to them, no matter how much he tried to attune himself. All he could see was how she disappeared into the song, gave herself over to its emotions and moment. All he could she see was Grace, but with a broken heart or a desperate urge to dance or joyful with love. Her dances on the stage pulled him like a string along with its movement. He’d never understood the point of modern dance until then. He could admit though, she couldn’t sing if her life depended on it. She mostly stuck to lip-syncing in moments like these.

Her arms were bare from her black tank top. Underneath she wore a matching long print skirt, that he knew she would twirl and twirl in. She would twirl, and laugh, like the air was her invisible partner she matched movements with and cunningly denied the satisfaction of a dip. She would twirl like a top that could lift off the table and go floating into the air at any minute. But she wouldn’t. She would stay on the ground, with him.

***

Her husband, Miles, had sugar on his mouth. He had dark hair and dark eyes hidden under his dark thick glasses, which he needed because of how long he spent in the dark staring at computer screens. He was so serious with that sugar on his mouth. When she’d met him in college, the initial attraction on her part was less about his handsomeness and more about getting him to laugh. Nothing was more satisfying to her pride than getting him to laugh, even now. 

“You’re a mess,” she said, looking at him accusingly.

His eyes widened. She swiped the powder out of the corner of his top lip, showed it to him, and licked it off her finger. “Sorry, didn’t want to sugar coat it.”

All that got her was an eyebrow raise and a slight shake of his head. Maybe a little smile. 

The beautiful taste lingered in her mouth, and she looked down at her plate out of habit, hoping for more to magically appear. Her eyes inched over to the last quarter of his berry Danish. She wouldn’t beg. The pastries had been expensive. He’d planned this, had clearly read the menu beforehand, had known exactly what to order. He deserved those last few bites of heaven.

“You want a better look?” he asked her. 

“No,” she said. She looked around the restaurant instead to distract herself, at the opening ceiling concept and the cylindrical hanging lights.

He laughed. She couldn’t help but look at him then, at the way his eyes danced with the rumble of his chest. “Seriously, come here for a minute.”

He moved over to allow her room on the booth next to him and she obliged, curious. He slung an arm over her, and with the other, picked up his pastry. She didn’t realize what he was doing until the pastry started moving towards her. 

“What are you doing?” she hissed. She looked around to see if anyone saw them being the most annoying couple in the bakery.

“You don’t want it?” he asked innocently.

“Not like this, no.” She tried to believe herself as the words came out. It was the best Danish in the history of the world. Hadn’t people fought in wars for much less?

But dying for things you believed in, even if they were Danishes, was generally considered alright by human standards. Full grown adults sitting on the same side of the booth in public and feeding each other pastries was not.

“Alright,” he said, and shrugged, about to toss the whole thing in his mouth. 

Her hands made her decision for her and caught his wrist. She guided it to her and took a bite. Anyone would forget their surroundings during a bite that good. She ate it all.

He grinned.

“Oh, shut up,” she replied, and licked her lips.

She’d grown up in Austin, grown up in the city of music doing ballet and tap. He’d come here to pursue a degree in computer science and although for most of their classes they were on different parts of campus entirely, they had shared two of them and that had been enough. Her friends were baffled by how fast she had settled with him, especially given their differences. There was nothing to say about it except cliches. The older she got, the more she realized life just became a long list of evidence about how true cliches were, and if you tried to explain that to younger ones, they only heard the cliche and not the truth. Opposites did attract.

She loved getting to experience paintings and movies and music through him. He had basically seen nothing. He approached things at a distance, a puzzle that could be solved. She liked that, because life had always seemed so big and close, as if she was in a kaleidoscope pulsing with colors and feelings and with no control over the rotation. Most of all, staying with him was sensible -- it meant she got to keep trying to make him laugh for however long she needed.

He was her guide, the practical half. He knew how to get a good tax refund and he didn’t use a paid service for it. He knew when to change the air filter, the oil in their cars, and why the Internet was down. He didn’t usually plan dates like this. And never, ever on a work day last minute.

The cramped walkway between the tables caused someone with a tray blocking her view of her feet to stumble. The iced coffee on it tipped down into the seat across from them.

“Oh my god,” said the woman, clutching a hand to her chest and making the tray wobble even more. “I'm so sorry -- let me just…” 

“It's fine,” Grace assured her. “No harm done.” The woman smiled and rushed off to get napkins.

Grace stared at the puddle dripping from the chair to floor. Lucky she had moved seats!

Today was a good day, she realized. “Come on.” She pulled Miles to his feet. “Now that we’re playing hooky we might as well go all the way.”

She took him to the ten-dollar arcade and whooped him at Skee-Ball. He killed more zombies than her in a shooter, and neither of them could win a single stuffed toy at the claw machine. He did reach his hand into a vending machine and, without looking, pull out a bag of Fritos like a magician. 

She ripped open the bag. “I love you,” she said.

He held her purposefully intense eye contact. “I love you too,” he told her. She was a bit taken back by how tender and serious he sounded, but she was committed. 

“I was talking to the chips,” she said, and blinked her eyes like she was shocked at his behavior.

He ripped them away from her. She jumped up and down around him, straining to reach it. She couldn't help laughing the whole time.

***

The weather was cool enough for a hike. They raced and panted their way along the gravel trail looking out on the thick waters of Lake Travis, Grace pointing out all the turtles along the way.

“Red eared slider,” Miles said at one of them.

Her head whipped towards him for an explanation.

“The name of the turtle. That one could have been around for twenty, thirty years.”

“Since when do you know turtle facts?”

“Why don't you? You're the one who loves them,” he said.

“My love transcends labels,” she explained.

 He rolled his eyes, but later, he yanked her hand to pull her to a stop and pointed across the water at a floating white shape. 

“Snapping turtle,” he told her.

With awe, she realized he was right. It moved just underneath the surface, four prehistoric fins propelling it through the murk.

“Good eye,” she told him in admiration. She pulled her gaze off the turtle to find he was already staring at her.

“Sun will be setting soon,” he said. “Let’s get you some food.”

She became aware of her stomach, which agreed with his decision. All she’d eaten were the chips and pastries today.

They walked back hand in hand through the glittering gravel and shimmering water revealing itself now and then through the trees. She was thirty six and surely that was young enough to feel this swoony. Who was she kidding, there weren't any age restrictions on swooniness. Her staid computer programmer had gone on a perfect date for her. He was more attuned to her than she thought possible, knowing just what she was craving, the moment she was tired.

***

At home, after they ate his chicken in sauce recipe, he asked her to dance. Before she could say anything, he put on the music.

“Alright,” she said with a grin. “Tango, huh? You don't know what you've gotten into.”

Her grip found his own, and they turned and turned again in their apartment, shoulders touching, feet sweeping around each other. She led, and kept their movements just simple enough for him to follow. Her skirt twirled. He chased her and enjoyed the twinkle of surprise in her at his speed, ever more bright when he suddenly maneuvered her into a dip. It wasn't long before she took it as a challenge and dipped him. He surrendered to the rush of air around his head, to her face taking up his view of the world. He smiled because he’d known exactly what he was getting into.

***

They danced almost all night and when he finally fell asleep, his consciousness shot back to the present, to where he was hooked up to a smooth black helmet and sitting on the lab’s uncomfortable plastic chair. His delicate fingers, veined with age, pulled off the helmet and put it on the charging rack.

“Hey,” his coworker, Damien, said. He approached with a clipboard. “You didn't save JFK, right?”

“No,” he said. It sounded like a whisper.

“Alright, well, Miles, just take it easy. You've been in there a while. We still need our head dev.”

Miles nodded, and stared at Damien until he left. Without programming new coordinates in his personal timeline, he slipped the helmet back on and played the day over again. 

Just one more time, he thought, like a meaningless song to bring comfort before sleep. He knew it was a lie.