The Crimson Table

In the city’s heart, nestled between a neon-lit floral shop and quiet hotel, stands the Crimson Table. A restaurant renowned for its audacious red decor. Its walls adorned with deep crimson drapes, blood orange chandeliers, and paintings of abstract fire. The air hums with the low thrum of jazz, drowned by the conversations of the patrons. The cloying scent of cinnamon choked him, each whiff a chilling reminder of his vulnerability.

At a corner table veiled in a scarlet tablecloth sits Adam Marconi. He traces his hand on the tablecloth, imagining the grain of the redwood table as if seeking answers in its knots. He wears a black turtleneck sweater, slim-fit trousers and scuffed leather boots. The sweater feels like armor, a literal collar that has become a symbol of the parts within he keeps concealed from the public.

For weeks, he’d inhabited the role of a guilt-ridden war criminal in a sold-out Broadway play. Now with the last curtain call passed, Adam is desperate to shed the character’s shadow. The red in the restaurant- so vivid it seems to pulse- haunts him.

Roles demanding accents and brooding silence had eroded his sense of self.

Adam spots a woman sitting in a booth alone. Long, wavy blonde hair. His heart hammered a nervous rhythm against his ribs as he observed her. He’d been watching her for weeks, and the sweet, floral perfume that always preceded her arrival filled his senses. A low hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses surrounded them, but all he could focus on was the delicate curve of her neck and the way lamplight danced in her hair. His palms were slick with sweat, a mixture of anticipation and fear. On previous nights, Adam’s nerves always took over, holding him back from talking to her. Tonight though, when he looks, his eyes meet hers. Green eyes alight with intelligence. He notices the pile of papers and a book. A feeling of quiet focus fills the room.

Adam leaves his corner table and approaches her. Sliding in the booth opposite her, he notices the title of the book: Mere Christianity. She tenses, but doesn’t leave.

“Do you come here often?” Adam asks.

“Lately, yeah,” she answers.

“I’m Adam.”

“Roxanne.”

A nervous smile played on his lips. “I couldn’t help but notice the book. C.S. Lewis. A bold choice for a place like this.” He gestures to the scarlet-drenched surroundings. Of the patrons in the background, Adam recognized actors, actresses, writers, and politicians. The sort of folk who would never read that type of book.

“It helps balance the chaos.” The corners of her eyes crinkled, and Adam found himself captivated by their warmth. The surrounding air seemed to shimmer, the noise of the restaurant fading to a dull murmur.

A server comes to their table, asking if they are ready to order. “I’ll need a few minutes,” Roxanne answered gracefully.

Adam doesn’t look up at the server. “My usual.”

The server leaves. “So, Adam,” Roxanne prompted, her gaze unwavering, “what brings you to the Crimson Table tonight?”

He shifted, the leather of his boots scraping against the floor. “The same thing that brings you, I suspect,” he replied, his voice a low rumble. “A sanctuary from the world.” He gestured around at the opulent surroundings. “Or perhaps just a place to hide.” He paused, studying her. “Do you come here to escape, Roxanne, or to find?”

He saw the gears turning behind her green eyes, the subtle tightening of her jaw. A small, almost imperceptible smile played on her lips. “I’m still figuring that out,” she admitted, her gaze settling on the book before her. “It’s a nice place. Allows me to get my work done for tomorrow.”

The server returned, placing Adam’s usual glass of wine on the table. He took a long sip, the liquid a momentary respite from the heat of his gaze. “What is it you’re working on?” he asked, trying to sound casual, but his heart still thrummed with a nervous energy. He wanted to know everything about her.

She looked down at her papers, then back at him, with a flicker of amusement in her eyes. “A sermon. I’m a pastor at a Pentecostal church. It’s my first pastorate. I am preaching about how we are all actors. We spend our lives ‘pretending’ to be the people we want the world to see. Lewis argues that the only ‘pretending’ worth doing is pretending to be like God- because eventually, the mask fits. You stop being a performer and start being a person.” The words, though simple, held a quiet confidence that both intrigued and intimidated him. He could tell from her soft hand movements and gentle voice that she was intelligent, and the passion he saw behind her intrigued him.

Yet, the nervous energy went a notch higher. Adam remembered a recent interview where he quipped, “Sin makes for good theater.” Now here he was, sin incarnate in a black turtleneck.

“Theater never interested you then?” Adam questioned, studying her. She was an absolute mystery. Not the type of pastor he always imagined. “It can be a hard path, and I’ve come to detest the life of an actor. Few friends, and a lot of loneliness.”

Roxanne’s gaze drifted to the bustling room, then back to him. “Tell me about acting. What brought you to this place?” She leaned forward slightly, her eyes alight with genuine interest. “You seem…burdened.” Her honesty startled him.

“Does your faith ever feel like a role?” he asked.

Roxanne didn’t hesitate. “Never. It’s the only place I feel real.” She paused, considering his question. “What about you? Does the stage ever feel like a sanctuary?”

Adam took a slow breath, the wine suddenly tasting bitter on his tongue. He ran a hand through his hair, the familiar gesture doing little to ease the tension that had coiled in his chest. “Sanctuary, maybe,” he conceded, his voice barely a whisper. “But also a prison.” He watched as her gaze softened, a hint of empathy flickering in the green depths of her eyes. He knew he should leave the conversation, get up and walk away, but the intensity of her presence trapped him.

“Tell me about the prison, Adam.”

Adam leans in. “I’ve played men who lie, cheat, kill.” He looked around at the red decor in the room. “Now I’m not sure where the mask ends and I begin.”

The server returns with a platter of charred figs, bitter olives and a ceramic bowl of olive oil. Roxanne points to the dish. “I’ll take whatever he is having.”

The server frowns. “It’s called the Facade.”

“It’s meant to be shared,” Adam jumps in. He smiles at the server. “I’ll pick up the tab.”

The server leaves. Adam overturns the olive oil onto the plate. “Sometimes I think we are all just…props in someone else’s story.” He watches Roxanne as the oil pools on the plate. “Or maybe we are the ones toppling our own bowls.”

Roxanne spears a fig, her gaze unwavering. “And what story do you believe you’re in, Adam?” she asks, her voice a low murmur that somehow cuts through the din of the restaurant. “Who is the author?”

He hesitates, the question hanging in the air like the scent of burning wood. He considers the directors, the critics, the audience, and the relentless demands of a fickle industry. His mouth tastes of bitterness, like the olives he swallows. “I don’t know anymore,” he confesses finally. “Maybe I wrote my script, and now I’m trapped in it.” He pushes the plate towards her. “Eat.”

Roxanne stares at the plate, then spears an olive. “A pastor can easily become trapped behind a mask. The pressure to conform is multifaceted: You might feel compelled to preach like an inspiring pastor, and your congregation could also impose expectations. Some believe a female pastor should be humble, obedient, and adhere to traditional roles.”

Her voice thoughtful, she continued, “Perhaps the mask isn’t the real problem. Maybe it’s the need for it. What lies beneath that facade?”

Adam blinked. The question was a door he’d avoided opening.

He reached for the wineglass, the cold glass a slight comfort against the heat creeping up his neck. He swirled the remaining liquid, watching the ruby color cling to the sides. “Underneath?” he echoed, the word feeling foreign on his tongue. Considering his roles, he thought about his persona and secrets. He thought of the loneliness, the constant performance, the gnawing feeling that he was perpetually on the precipice of being exposed. He looked at Roxanne, her face a study in serene contemplation. “I’m not sure I’m brave enough to look,” he admitted, the words barely audible. He took a large gulp of the wine. “Maybe the mask I’m wearing isn’t a prison — a choice to protect something fragile inside.” He picks up an olive and eats it.

Adam considers the olive’s briny tang, the subtle shift in flavor as he chews. Outside, a storm is rattling the windows with fresh snow. “Like a chrysalis,” he murmurs, finally meeting Roxanne’s gaze. “A temporary shell until we are ready to emerge.”

He sets down the empty glass, the silence between them thickening like the storm outside. “And what if we never truly emerge?” he asks, the question a whisper lost in the sudden gust of wind. He watches Roxanne, her expression unreadable, as she picks at the remaining figs. “What if the transformation is…incomplete?” He wonders if she understands the weight of that fear, the terror of forever being trapped in a state of becoming. He looks at his hands. Despite the many characters, who is he? He looks up at her and asks, “What emerges from you, Roxanne?”

Roxanne puts down her fork. “The one who created me. Who took the time and energy to weave into me the unique task no one else can fulfill.”

He leans forward, his voice dropping to a near-silent plea. “And what if the creation…doesn’t want to fulfill that task?” The question seems to hang in the air, a fragile butterfly pinned beneath glass. He studies her, searching for a hint of the divine in the air, a flicker of unwavering faith. He wants to know if she has ever questioned the script, if she has ever yearned to rewrite her own role. As the storm outside intensifies, the wind howls a mournful chorus. He closes his eyes and waits for her answer, bracing himself for a truth he isn’t sure he can bear.

Roxanne tapped the book. “Then you get to keep yourself. That’s the terrifying thing about God; he’s a gentleman. He won’t move in where he isn’t invited. But Lewis’ warning is that at the end of the day, if you insist on keeping your ‘self’, you’ll find it’s the only thing you have left. No light, no warmth, no company. Just a very well-crafted mask with nothing behind it.”

The server brings the check. Roxanne stands and throws on her coat as Adam hands his card to the server. She leaves, her pace hurried.

Adam follows her outside. Roxanne pauses on the sidewalk, breath visible in the cold. Adam catches up with her, the biting wind whipping at his exposed face. He hesitates, unsure whether to speak, to offer some inadequate apology or reassurance. Roxanne stares straight ahead, her gaze fixed on the swirling snow. He notices the set of her shoulder, the rigid line of her jaw. Does she see him as broken? Does she pity him? He reaches out, his hand hovering near arm, then retracts it. Finally, he asks, his voice barely audible above the wind, “What do you do then? When you see nothing behind the mask?” He watches her, the streetlights casting long, distorted shadows around them, and waits for her response, knowing that whatever she says will become another layer in his own ever-evolving construction.

Roxanne clenches the book and papers tightly to her chest. “That’s actually the best place to start,” she says softly. “Lewis says that as long as you think you are ‘somebody’ — as long as you think your mask is real — God can’t do much with you. It’s only when you realize there is nothing behind it that he can finally start putting himself there. You aren’t empty. You’re finally available.”

She gives him a small, knowing smile and steps into the stormy night.

Adam returns to the booth. The bustling noise of the restaurant felt distant now, like a soundtrack played from another room. The staff cleared his plate—the Facade—, leaving only a void on the redwood table.

Beside his empty wineglass, the server had left the check and a single red fig, sliced open. Its flesh was dark, its center hollowed out and exposed to the air.

He stared at the glass. It was perfectly transparent, stripped of its vintage and its purpose, catching the amber light of the chandelier. He thought of Roxanne’s words: available. For the first time, the emptiness didn’t feel like a hole to be covered. It felt like a space.

Adam reached for his card, but his hand lingered for a moment over the hollowed fig. He wasn’t looking for a mask to put on for the server. He just sat there, in a noisy room, an empty vessel, waiting to see what would be poured into him.