Fragments from the Veil — Chapter 3

Kristen’s phone vibrated loudly on the wooden table, startling us. “I’m sorry —” she said, “excuse me.”

“No problem —” I said, “go ahead.”

“Hey ... what’s up?” she answered. “Not yet ...” she responded to some question I couldn’t hear — but I wish I had heard it. In reality, I was annoyed at the interruption. I wasn’t annoyed with her, of course, but with whoever was calling. I thought it was rude of them to call back after she had told them she was having dinner with a friend.

While this was going on, María arrived with our food. She placed before each of us both a small bowl of miso soup, a bowl of salad with peanut and ginger dressing, a dipping bowl with soy sauce, a dipping bowl with yum yum sauce, and each one’s sushi rolls on white and rectangular ceramic plates. “Aquí tienes, Corazón … Aquí tienes, mi Amor,” she said to each of us warmly as she placed our plates on the table. She also placed a third dish between us — “from Itamae Takumi —” she said, “lobster roll.” Then she replaced my empty glass with another glass of Sapporo, and Kristen’s glass — which was empty by all accounts — with a new glass of cold green tea.

"Is there anything else you would like?" asked María.

“We’re about to eat,” said Kristen, still on the phone.

"Nothing for me, thanks," I said to María. "What about you, Kristen?"

Kristen glanced at me and shook her head to say no — she was still on her phone — “No, it’s not like that,” she replied, with some frustration in her voice — it reminded me of how my mom used to talk to my dad whenever they were having a disagreement and she felt hopeless because he was being unreasonable.

"I think we're good —” I told María, “thank you.”

"Wonderful," said María. "Just let me know if you need anything else." Then she added, “Enjoy your meal,” and left to tend to the other guests.

"I'll take care of it ... I’ll call you ... bye,” said Kristen. She hung up and put the phone back on the table, face down. She exhaled to let out her frustration.

“Is everything alright?” I asked, hoping she would tell me about her call.

"Yes," said Kristen. “It’s nothing — I’m sorry.” She seemed flustered, and her eyes were begging me not to inquire, so I accepted what she said, though I didn’t believe her. I knew that “it’s nothing” really meant “it’s nothing I want to discuss with you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said, my tone inviting her to relax. “The food looks delicious — I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.” I wasn't just saying that — the sushi pieces looked exquisite and perfect. Even her fried and battered rolls looked elegant drizzled with pink, brown, and red sauces.

"Mmm! It does look delicious," she said, her eyes wide and sparkling over the food.

"Meshiagare," I said.

"What's that?" she asked.

"It means enjoy your meal.”

“Thank you!” she said.

“At least that's what Duolingo says —" I had looked up some phrases in the app in anticipation of tonight.

"Thanks!" she said warmly. "You too." The way she looked at me told me she knew I cared.

We began to eat. She first had her miso soup, then her salad. I thought it was a good idea to have the salad before having the rolls with the fried and battered stuff. I, on the other hand, first had the salad, then my miso soup. I wanted the smooth flavors of the soup to wash away the salad and the tangy flavor of its peanut and ginger dressing before I tried my sushi rolls, which were fresh and raw.

"What's this?" asked Kristen, pointing at one of her dipping bowls.

"It's yum yum sauce," I said. "There's some already on the lobster roll, and on your crab and shrimp rolls — that's for just in case you want more."

"Oh ... okay — thanks," she said. She then dipped her finger in the sauce and tasted it — "Oh, it's sweet!"

"Yes, it is —" I said, "it tastes good with the fried stuff ... the lobster, the crab, the shrimp."

As I began to prep my sushi pieces by spreading wasabi on them with a chopstick, Kristen forked a piece of her shrimp tempura roll, dipped it in the yum yum sauce, and took it to her mouth, dripping yum yum sauce on the table — and on her lips.

I wanted to wipe the yum yum sauce off her lips and kiss them. Instead, I asked, "How is it?"

"Oh, it's really good!" she exclaimed. "I'll definitely have to come back here for lunch."

"Glad you like it," I said, dabbing a piece of my tuna roll into the soy sauce, just enough to wet the surface of the side that had wasabi on it. I then took the same piece to my mouth, letting that side — with the wasabi and soy sauce — fall directly on my tongue — the flavors exploded in my mouth! "Yes, it's very good!" I remarked.

"Yes —" she said, making a yum sound — in reality, it was more of an umm sound — "it is!"

As I watched her eat — the way she took each piece of sushi to her mouth, to her lips — I kept beholding her, desiring her, like Galileo used to watch the moon and long for it. She glanced at me — I thought the expression in her eyes told me she knew how I felt.

I had a quick sip of beer.

"You should try using the chopsticks,” I suggested. "It’s more traditional.”

"Oh!" she said, somewhat embarrassed. "I don't know how to use chopsticks."

“It’s easy,” I said. “See?” I showed her how I was holding the chopsticks; then, showed her how I opened and closed them. “That’s all there is to it.”

She tried it. “I’m not sure,” she said, holding them awkwardly. “Am I doing it right?”

I reached across the table — my heart, beating fast; my hands, sweating; my body, shaking. “Let me show you,” I said, as I took her hand in my hands. She looked at me with her greyish-blue eyes glowing like moons over a blushing sunset. “Like this,” I said, gently adjusting her fingers — I let my hand rest for one or two seconds longer than necessary — her hands were surprisingly cold.

Once I let go, she tried using the chopsticks again — "Like this?" she asked, managing to lift a piece of sushi into her mouth.

“Yay!” I celebrated. "You got it!"

“I got it!” she exclaimed, laughing with delight.

“You got it!” I replied, celebrating and reassuring her.

She looked at me and smiled with emotion.

I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to touch her hands again — I wanted to hold her hands.

"Is it too cold in here?" I asked.

“No,” she said nervously. "Why?"

“Your hands felt really cold — I thought you must be freezing.”

“They did?” she said, surprised — perhaps wondering if that was a bad thing.

“Yes,” I said. "I hope you’re not freezing.”

She felt her hands. “I guess they are a little cold,” she said.

I reached, and I gently held her hands in mine. I felt her palms — they were still cold, so I gently rubbed them. “I don’t want you to freeze in here,” I said, looking into her eyes.

“Thank you,” she said. She didn’t pull her hands away — instead, she looked at me timidly, with trembling eyes. “I guess you’re right ... it is a little chilly in here,” she said.

I let go gently — I felt nervous. I drank more beer to cool myself down, but the beer went in the wrong way, causing me to cough and spill some of it on myself, on my chest — where the shirt was open and my Maverick sunglasses were hanging,

“Are you alright?” asked Kristen.

“I’m fine...” I coughed. “I’m okay ... thank you.” I kept coughing, trying to get a clear breath of air.

She passed me a napkin. I thanked her and proceeded to dry my chest and to carefully dab my sunglasses too — still clearing my throat, feeling embarrassed.

When I was finally able to breathe clearly, I sought her eyes, but she looked away at the byōbu, bashfully. I waited — my heart still racing, my face still warm. I was now sure that she knew how I felt about her. It was like being in one of those childhood dreams in which you’re standing naked in front of your peers.

When I was a teen, my aunt — Aunt Lillian — once told me a joke about a toad. I don't remember the joke itself, but I remember there was no punchline. Instead, the joke ended with my aunt saying a line and making a face, pretending to be the toad.

“It’s funny, right?” she asked me — it always seemed to me that she was trying to prove that her joke was funny after someone else had told her it wasn't.

I laughed and laughed — and I could see that she was pleased and delighted because I was amused — “No, Aunt, it isn't!” I replied, still laughing.

“What? How come you’re laughing then?” she asked.

“I’m laughing at you, Aunt!”

I remember the change in her expression — her smile melted like ice cream in a hot day as soon as she realized the joke was on her.

That’s the kind of change I saw in Kristen’s face as she sat looking at the byōbu — the warmth in her face vanished into serious consideration, as if she were the member of a jury weighing the actions of one accused.

She took another roll of sushi into her mouth and chewed. Then, after swallowing, she looked at me with questioning eyes — “So ... how are your wife and children?”

Her question pierced deeply, unexpected. Yes, she knew I was married and had children — I had mentioned this before. I had expected the topic to come up sometime — maybe even tonight — but things had been going so well, I thought we were past that. All along, I had sought to get her to lower her defenses — instead, I had lowered mine.

I took a long sip of my beer, buying time to respond. “Oh, they're doing great ...," I said nonchalantly, pretending everything was alright. "Thanks for asking.” I felt flushed with shame, so I drank more beer to cool down.

I saw her looking at me as I drank — examining me — with the hint of a smirk in her expression. I didn't know what was coming next, but I had seen the look in her eyes before — it was the same look I'd seen in my cat's eyes when she hunted. I realized then that Kristen was a huntress and I was her prey.

I put my glass down. “They’re doing well —” I repeated, still pretending I was fine — "I talked to them earlier today. They're visiting my in-laws — they said they got there safely.” That was all true, by the way — it just wasn't the whole truth.

“Oh, that’s good,” she said, with a playful tone. Those pictures I had seen of her on Facebook — the side of her I hadn't seen before — I feared that side of her was getting ready to pounce on me. "That's nice," she added. "Do your in-laws live far from your home?"

"About three hours away,” I said, again telling her the truth, yet expecting her to swipe at me with sharp claws at any moment.

“I see...” she said, thoughtful. “And how long is your family staying with them?” she asked, and then sipped on her tea.

“They’ll be gone through the weekend and come back on Monday," I answered, nervously and wondering, sipping more beer.

She put the straw in her lips again, and sipped. She lingered there, staring into her glass as if the words of thunder had spoken to her and the gods had left her a sign at the bottom of the ocean — had they spoke to her too? For a moment, I thought so. Then, her eyes widened as if she had read the answer to a question she had long pondered. “And you didn’t go with them?” she asked, looking at me with feline eyes.

She looked directly into my eyes, ready to read me whenever I answered. Her question was deceptively simple — posed as a yes or no question, yet demanding an explanation. It wasn't a question about what I had done or not done, but about what I intended to do — and I was too close to hide.

In reality, I don’t like visiting my in-laws — they always have friends stopping by to see my wife and kids. I prefer to stay at home and have time to myself. “I’ve been busy with my blog,” I said. “I needed some time to relax and clear my mind ...” I wanted to say more, but I stopped there — once again, my answer was all true, but it was also true I had stayed behind to see her.

She kept looking at me, thoughtful and solemn. “That’s good that you’re taking some time for yourself,” she said, finally releasing a gentle smile. “We all need some time alone," she said sympathetically.

“Right,” I said, relieved and catching my breath — yet, feeling stirred and shaken. She could have ripped me apart, but she let go. Maybe I had misread her, maybe she was glad to get that conversation out of the way. After all, we had been having a good time — we just needed to be honest with each other.

Still, I felt she had read through me, like a novelist reads a short story. My plan had been to keep things casual, but I now realized I had been deceiving myself. Things were not casual — they had never been casual since I was married and had children. My only hope was that she would choose me regardless.

“How do you like your new house?” I asked, attempting to restore the previous and gentler tone of our conversation — and hoping she would still choose me.

“I like it very much ... thank you,” she said, gracefully and cautiously. “I get to have more privacy, more freedom — you know.”

“Yes, it’s always nice to have your own place," I agreed.

The last time I saw her — some nine months ago, at the dental clinic where she used to work — she had told me she would be buying a house and moving out of her parents’ home.

“Yes ... it is,” she said, taking her last piece of sushi to her mouth. "I'm really enjoying it."

“Do you miss living with your parents?” I asked — I was trying to make the conversation about her.

“Sometimes,” she said, drinking the last of her tea. “They live close, so I can always visit them — or talk with them over the phone.”

“That’s great," I said. "It’s always good to have the family close.”

“Yes, it is," she said. "Dinner was delicious," she added.

"I'm glad you liked it," I said, working on my last few pieces.

"I did ... thank you," she said, with a kind smile.

It looked to me like she was ready to wrap up, but realized I needed to tell her how I felt and what I felt for her. I felt unsure, but I reasoned that she already knew anyway — and not telling her would be a wasted opportunity.

“Kristen —" I said, but she interrupted me.

“So, what are your plans for this weekend?” she asked. "It sounds like you have a lot of time to yourself."

“Nothing specific,” I said. “Just a few ideas — I’ll figure it out as I go along.”

“Like what?” she asked — her tone cautious, interested.

I promise I'll listen to you if this works out, I prayed in my mind to the gods. “Tonight, I want to go to a bar nearby. They always have a band on Friday nights — it’s loud, fun, and there’s dancing. There’s also another bar that's more quiet.”

“Uh-huh…” she said, communicating she wanted to hear more.

"What about you? Do you have any plans for tonight?" I asked her.

“Oh," she seemed a little startled, a little surprised. "I have to take care of that thing," she said.

"The work thing?" I asked her.

"Yeees," she said. "Sorry."

I was about to say something, when María suddenly interrupted us. "How was your meal?" she asked. I had not seen her approaching — damn her for interrupting us.

“It was very good, María,” I said, trying to be polite yet sounding annoyed. “Thank you."

“It was delicious,” said Kristen, with a genuine smile.

“I’m glad you liked it,” said María. “Can I take these away?”

“Yes,” I said. "Thank you." I tried to smile too, but it felt like a forced smile.

She retrieved the dishes discreetly — maybe she realized she was bothering me — and quietly walked away.

“What about tomorrow?” I asked Kristen, hoping she would be interested in spending more time together. “Do you have any plans for tomorrow?”

“Nothing much,” she said, taking her time to answer.

Praise the gods! I thought to myself.

Then she added, “Maybe spend time with my friends and my boyfriend.”

I heard María break a plate just then, when Kristen broke my heart. I felt tears in my eyes, so I gently rubbed them.

“Are you okay?” asked Kristen, sounding concerned.

Her question — it just made me feel worse. “I have allergies...,” I answered. “From time to time they get to me.” I said it well, I said it without breaking — like when you fall off your bike as a child and it hurts, but you don't cry because you don't want your friends to see you cry. In reality, I do have allergies — they just weren’t bothering me then.

“To what?” she asked.

“Oh ... to everything under the sun,” I said with a faked smile, almost laughing, as I finished rubbing my eyes. “Grass, pollen, cats, dogs, dust mites — everything."

“Are you sure?” She didn’t sound too convinced.

“Yes, it’s all good. I’ll be alright.”

She had cleaned my teeth every six months for the last three years, and she had never said anything about having a boyfriend. In fact, I remember her telling me once that she did not have a boyfriend — it was right when I had told her that I had a wife.

“Oh, you never mentioned him before. How long have you guys been dating?”

"Yes … right,” she said. “We started dating about two months ago,” she said.

Even though I felt profoundly discouraged, I managed to convince myself that perhaps it wasn’t serious. After all, she had come to dinner with me — that had to count for something.

“So, did you know each other before? How did you two meet?" I asked, pretending to be interested, holding my tears.

“No,” she replied. "We met at work." Then she added, "Actually, he's the colleague who’s been calling me tonight.”

I was devastated! He worked with her — he saw her every day. I felt jealous and insecure — how could I compete with him? He had been at work all along — for nine months! — and I had been absent. I saw it then — he had been calling her, texting her, checking on her — because he knew she was having dinner with me.

What I didn't understand is why she had come with me, why she had accepted my invitation. Why?

I stared at her, hoping to understand. She looked away in shame — I must have stared too long. "I see ...," I said. "You guys met at work."

Suddenly, I stumbled with the truth. I had found it, maybe they had put it there for me to find — she had come with me because there really was something between us — between her and me — something unspoken, something unresolved, something that I needed to do. She had waited for me, but I had taken too long. But now she was here, waiting for me to make a move.

Author’s Note

This story is part of Fragments from the Veil, a mythic cycle of desire, rupture, and strange illumination. The table begins to tremble. Nathaniel’s ache finds shape, and the silence begins to crack.

If you’re new to this world, you may wish to begin with Chapter 1, or let this fragment stand on its own.

Related Chapters

Fragments from the Veil — Chapter 2

Fragments from the Veil — Chapter 4