Happy Birthday, My Love

There was one piece of cake, with one strawberry, and one fork, yet there were two of us here at the table.

“Hey, Babe,” I said, leaning in to give her a kiss. She turned away, not saying a word.

Well, crap! Must be she was still mad at me.

“Come on, Babe,” I tried again. “You know I didn’t mean it!”

She shifted in her chair, angling her body away from me and looking pointedly out the window.

I looked at my watch. Was I that late? No, it was just a quarter after, and we always met at noon, every Monday, without fail. We would have coffee and dessert. Quick and easy, and a really nice treat.

Having her ignore me like this really hurt. One fight, and she cut me out? A little extreme.

I took the chair opposite her, despite the lack of invitation and the decided chill in the air. I reached across the table to take her hand.

She lifted the fork, avoiding my touch, and cut a small piece of the decadent-looking dessert. She lifted it slowly to her mouth, and I noticed that her lips were trembling. What the hell?

She slipped the tiny bite into her mouth. Closed her eyes as if to savor it - or maybe to avoid looking at me. She swallowed with a tiny choking sound.

She seemed really upset.

“Talk to me, Babe!” I begged. “We can work this out! Just talk to me!” I reached again for her hand.

Suddenly, she threw the fork down on the table. With a soft, hopeless groan, she dropped her face into her hands. Her body was racked with sobs, shaking violently.

I leaped to my feet and rushed to her side, wanting to hug her, to hold her, to help her through this horrible weeping. But did she want me to? What was going on? She was acting so distant, like she was pretending that I wasn’t even there.

I stood beside her, helpless, filled with anguish, miserable. Maybe it really was over.

She straightened in her chair with what looked like a tremendous effort, squaring her shoulders and taking a deep, shaky breath. She rummaged in her purse, pulling out a tissue and a ragged, oft-folded piece of paper. Wiping her face with the tissue, she unfolded the paper and smoothed it out on the table.

Curious, I looked over her shoulder to read it. It was the morning newspaper.

And my picture was on the front page.

“Local Man Killed by Drunk Driver,” the headline read.

What?! I hadn’t killed anyone! That one glass of wine I’d had wouldn’t have been enough to get me drunk, even if I had finished it before I stormed away after our fight. And I didn’t finish it. I didn’t even remember getting into my car…

“Oh, Byron,” she sobbed brokenly. “Oh, my love. How could this have happened? It must be just a bad dream. Just a bad dream….”

She looked at the paper again, and I could see the rest of the article. “Byron Baker, a local attorney, was struck just before midnight by a vehicle driven by -” The words blurred before my eyes.

Wait. What?

I was the victim? I was… dead?!

She pushed the cake away as she rose.

“Happy Birthday, my love,” she whispered. “Happy Birthday in Heaven.”

I reached my arms out to hug her. She walked right through me, as if I wasn’t there.