Scratch
It was a meeting defined by chance. Gus was looking at a pile of marked-down tools that he didn’t really need, but the prices were attractive and he could always imagine a need for a stubby, lever-reversing 3/8″ right-angle driver.
He was absorbed in his deliberations on outfitting his garage with the tools that he would likely never use for projects that would never get done when a he felt the bubble of his space bulge inward and he looked up, the ratchet in one hand and a Torx screwdriver set in the other.
“Sal.” It was a statement: she recognized him, but it took the space of two stopped heartbeats for him. He opened his mouth and his tongue lolled around, trying to find a sound to wrap itself around, but nothing came out. “Sal, it’s me.” She smiled broadly, head a bit extended, her palms up, arms bent as if to say here, look, here. Her hair was dirty blond and just touched the top drape of her summery dress at her shoulders. Sal put the tools back on the sale table. “Justine. Wow. Look at you.” His face started to come out of its coma. He reached out to touch her hands and drew back, remembering his wife lurking somewhere in the drapery aisle. She looked beautiful, better than he remembered and he looked downward with a bit of shame. “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it,” he said.
They were an item, Sal and Justine, Justine and Sal. A match made in hell, her mother made said, with a smile, thus giving Justine the Great Big Go Ahead to be stupid and to be in love. Sal didn’t listen to his pals and instead found himself waiting for the work day to end just so that he could call her on the way home. There wasn’t anything they didn’t want to do with each other – barbecues, road trips to nowhere, bad movies, diners – it didn’t matter as long as they did it all together.
“Gee, Justine,” he started, “I didn’t think I’d ever bump into you. What are you doing . . . here?” She was the type to “move on.” He was not. He still hadn’t gotten over the end of their romance. It seemed to be going in the right direction, even though the language of their love was strictly their own and beyond the ken of anyone else. The breakup was bad. He couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her, but he did, quit her cold turkey and convinced himself that it was the right thing to do. Like some kind of craving, nagging at him, he though about her at least once a day, every day. Every day for three years, he wondered what she was doing, who was having those tete a tete chats that would go on into the small hours of the morning. Every day, he imagined that she had gotten married to some guy that made her laugh, that left her fulfilled and that took care of her in the ways that her knew he could never do.
Their courtship was a sham, he realized later. They both knew there was an inalienable connection from the beginning. It wasn’t sexual, not at first. In was all in their heads and the connection was immutable. She did the same, rushing home to talk about whatever was the newest set of this or that, not boring, but at precisely the same level as he, though they each had their expertises.
They were so perfect a match that Sal began to have his doubts about whether such seeming perfection was an illusion. The doubt wore at him until he decided that he wasn’t up to the challenge and simply quit her cold.
In her place, he made a pragmatic selection from what was available. This was his view – if he couldn’t have what was right and perfect, he would solve a problem and that would be the end of it. But Sal was only the perfect husband to the perfect wife.
Varicella returned from looking at the drapes, empty handed, faux YSL tote on her shoulder. XXX
“Sal, so who do we have here?” Her expression was broad, She was itching for a fight, territorial as always. “Hello, I’m Justine.” Justine held her hand out and smiled genuinely, the skin near her eyes crinkling as emphasis. “Hello, Oh,” she paused and scanned her quarry Justine, oh, my husband told me about you. Okay. Nice to meet you.”