Great Expectations

I wasn’t there today. It was the other day when I couldn’t quite see what everyone was talking about.

A fish restaurant that I promised myself I would visit yesterday, for the halibut.

I toss that off, and there it is, gone like usual. So much leaving and going. The expectations are so endless that you have to claw away a moment to breathe.

You smile brightly and let out that soft sigh, making me know what you are going to say.

“What?” you ask.

“That look, those expectations!”

“Oh, we’re going to have another day like this…”

When I oversaw my life, the dreams came easily. Not like this. Not the endless fights over what never mattered. Not the empty spending that kills creativity.

Dreams don't necessarily fail; it's the overreach. The construct that floats in midair, reality questioning itself.

“What construct?” you say, finally.

Or I imagine you ask the most important question anyone could ask. No really. Either you asked or you didn't, but at this point, it hardly matters.

Because I’m heading off somewhere again. Literally.

So we visited that restaurant.

Our waitress was so knowledgeable and professional. Her skillful movements had me captivated. Here was someone who truly knew her stuff. I wanted to say something to her—compliment her or maybe ask about the weather. Anything.

But the words wouldn't come. Our meals, however, did. You had a fish burger that dripped tartar sauce, while I had higher aspirations—beef bourguignon in a bowl with mashed potatoes at the bottom.

“I guess you'd have fish at a chicken place, and lobster at a bistro?" you ask.

I just nod, imagining what is to come. To me, my rising uncertainty was inversely related to the quality of service. Or was it the inflated bill that brought to mind the mantra of my marginality?

Now the waitress cleared our table, all tippy and bubbly. I pictured her machine, that tiny screen at the end of everything: 18 percent, 25 percent, 30 percent. Of course, I would tip 30 percent. If only to feel that stamp of certainty. I really was here. I made a difference.

At least my watch was where I needed it. One tap, and she smiles as she pretends not to look at the printout. It’s her generic smile, given freely. And I don't seem terribly interested in seeing her authentic 30 percent tip smile, even though I long for it.

“What’s with you and that waitress?” you ask as we leave. And I’m caught off guard. Blinking at the hot October sun, I wonder what matters more: the tip, the waitress, or my inflated thoughts.

It’s that construct again. It hardly matters whether you speak, listen, or breathe. Everything is always in limbo—like what could never be, even if you desperately hope it will suddenly appear.

But I don't make any sense. And you're in such a good mood. “Look, will ya!” you shout. “Lake Ontario has so many people lounging about!”

We walk along the familiar path to the shimmering water that extends far into the horizon. A few clouds part to reveal tiny sailboats with small figures aboard. The giants on the lakeshore make space as I hop from carved rocks down onto the wet, slippery sand. My sandals sink as the strange sensation of sun-warmed heat shifts to the cold, liquid certainty.

“Now you’ve done it!” you smirk. “No going back now!”

Which is true: I take off my sandals and imagine how even polluted water can make a difference. Will I reclaim the lake? Or raise a sign skyward in protest? Or will I wade out into the expanse like a pilgrim at the Ganges River, saffron robes flocking with thousands of others—such dazzling colors.

But it is the sun streaming through your hair that captures me. Your hand is firm and commanding. You help me back up onto the massive rocks, their gray laugh lines catching me off guard. It’s not a place for wet feet and muddy sandals. I peel them off and set them aside. But my soaked offering to these stoic rocks cannot be accepted.

So instead, my mouth moves in mysterious ways. Oh, but for the construct, I would be silent. Quiet for once. Later, try as I might to remember, I cannot recall a single thing I said.

We wander back when feeling tired seems to match the vibe, passing through crowds that stare at tourist trinkets. The sun sets low.

Where did we put that damn car? One street leads to another. Their friends are the fences that rot and heave near wooden clapboard houses that aunts and uncles willed to unsuspecting nephews and nieces.

We couldn't live here. The unreliable internet alone would be too much for us.

But here’s your car. Stealthy and waiting for us. A fresh rain we hadn’t noticed gave it a twilight sheen. Its sleek lines remind me of the rocks along a lakeside. It exists like a cat whose prey must make the first move for the drama to unfold.

Which causes me to talk even more until I can't anymore. I can no longer suppress the yawn that interrupts my rambling.

“We must do this again sometime!” I say as we enter the vehicle.

After an hour’s drive, it’s night now. So quiet. I hear that dog barking near my apartment. But I say nothing about it. We walk to my door.

I want to reach out. A meaningful moment. Squeeze a hand, a peck on the cheek. Something. But I think of that waitress. So efficient, so tidy. Everything is thought out. Everything decided.

“What a strange day! Everyone in shirt sleeves in October, no less!” I expound.

You turn on your heel. “So unexpected. Global warming, anyone?”

“Yeah! Have a good one!” I say.

You smile awkwardly. The construct holds, faintly, like the lake at sunset — everything shimmering, almost making sense. One glance is all I need. One glance is all I get.