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46 Z. A. Maxfield
Chapter Eight
As usual, Sunday brunch at Nacho s started out under a thick blanket of fog. By two
o clock, though, it burned off, leaving the palest blue sky with just a dusting of clouds. Not
much of a wind blew, and what there was seemed crisp and clean. Shawn and I got to leave
work early, a special treat, and we headed out on my bike for a ride. I could tell that Shawn
had never ridden a motorcycle, so we took it slow. I let him get the feel of the Sportster as
we wound our way along Pacific Coast Highway between the beach communities there,
until we would get to a town and traffic would crawl, all the other tourists out doing the
same thing.
Something settled inside me then, a deep serenity, the kind I thought I would get from
rehab, but didn t. It wasn t Shawn. He was part of the picture, but I knew better than to
expect someone to fill my empty spaces. I thought it might have been the act of standing in
one place long enough to look around. I was taking stock in St. Nacho s, making a new list of
what I didn t want and, maybe more importantly, what I did
I liked laughing, I found out, and music. I liked nice people, getting up early, and
working hard. I liked simple pleasures, like my toes in the sand and someone to kiss. I didn t
have to understand Heisenberg s uncertainty principle, or why Mahler stayed only one year
with the Metropolitan Opera. I just had to chop onions into neat little pieces. I could stop in
St. Nacho s and do what I d been doing, and though I had a definite preference, I could be
happy with or without Shawn. Shawn s presence at my back on that ride was a bonus.
We stopped at a restaurant in Morro Bay called The Galley and ate Dungeness crab
cocktails. Shawn tried opakapaka because he liked the name, and I had albacore with grilled
vegetables. Time slowed down with Shawn, each moment stretching longer as I watched
him. One of the things he began to do was teach me the sign for every single item we came
in contact with. I thought my head would explode, but the pleasure he displayed when I got
St. Nacho s 47
it right made me continue on with the game, and it was a game because he made it fun all
through the day.
Fish, he said and signed. His hand moved like a fish through the water. Fish.
Fish, I signed.
We did table, napkin, knife, fork, spoon, plate, glass, bread, water, ice. He asked me
which words I remembered. I went blank. Fish, I signed.
Shawn rubbed his face. Good, he said finally.
I ll take a class, I texted him. I found one online. I gave Jim the money. Shawn s smile
was like the sun.
Thank you, he said, sticking out his tongue in a vulgar way.
You re welcome, I said, and signed a nasty little message of my own.
Watching him eat, I noticed his every movement. How he sipped his beer, how he
used his utensils, the drops of condensation from his water goblet that wet his lips and he
licked off, unaware that I was looking. In an agony of self-conscious discomfort, I slowed my
usual quick pace to his more leisurely one, wanting to do everything just right.
This kind of thing had been much easier with the addition of alcohol to ease the
tension. I was covered in a kind of social rust, made worse by my age and his expectations.
Oil me.
Shawn took the check and wouldn t give it up when I attempted to pay. He both spoke
and gestured that it was his treat and ended up leaving cash and a generous tip. He threw an
arm around me as we walked out of the restaurant. People stared at us, some in frank
disapproval. I was exploding with pride. I d never felt such numbing gratitude. I drove us
back to St. Nacho s, hyperaware of him behind me. His warm hands slipped around me and
he leaned forward. Sometimes I felt him press against me in a deliberate hug.
We returned to the bar, which was empty and dark, and walked up the stairs together.
I felt all new, somehow, and different in a way I couldn t explain but it made me hesitant. It
was as if anything I did from that point on counted. Shawn turned the knob and opened the
door, and I walked in ahead of him. He leaned back against it once he closed it. Things stood
still for a minute. Time hung on me like old clothes, dragging me down. I started to take off
my leather jacket because suddenly I didn t want to be wearing it. It marked me as the
property of some other man, now almost forgotten in the haze of distant memory. My
recollection was faulty anyway and filled with gaps and holes like overproofed bread. I
dropped the jacket and kicked it to the corner of the small room.
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