my supervisor to let her know I was in and assumed my place at the end of register three. I worked with Carol every single shift. She refused to reveal her birth year, but I knew she was nearly 70. We had worked together for two years, and we were good friends. She loved Esther. She talked as if there was no tomorrow, and I listened as if she would never stop talking. We discussed little things, like the weather, the president, good books, old movies, jazz. We talked.to our customers, usually by including them in the conversations we'd started when there was no one in line. "Frankie!" Carol's shrill voice echoed through the empty aisles of the tiny store. "So much to tell ya!" And the day began. As I listened to Carol's account of her dog's near brush with death and the newspaper delivery boy that was two hours late, I hoped it wasn't wrong to feel relieved to think about things other than Esther. My mind wandered in and out of our conversation, mingling with thoughts of David, of Esther, of the dripping faucet that she'd asked me to have fixed. I thought of things that had been, and things that could have, should have been. I tried making lists of both things in my mind, dividing my thoughts and memories into columns and charts. There was a lot going on up there. Vacations, late nights spent together on our porch, afternoons gardening and walking. I remembered the sweetest times, the simplest times, and the times I felt most alive. I remembered the way her eyes looked, right after she woke up. They would fight the process with every ounce of strength they had, until finally, after a few cycles of fluttering and blinking, they would succumb to Esther's commands. They would find mine, and search them peacefully. And the corners of her mouth would curve upward ever so slightly as they would whisper, "Good morning, darling". My mind was jolted into the present as my bare calves became aware of a warm, moist matter running down them. "Oh, Frank," Carol gasped, as the remains of a chunky vegetable marinara sauce slid down onto my white shoes. I gazed down at the shattered glass and spattered mess on the cream tile floor, at the young boy whose tiny fists were crammed into his ears as he huddled next to his mother's
knees.
"You've never dropped something,"
she said. "Are you alright today?" I looked up and gazed at her. She had kind eyes that now took their turn searching mine, which lied as they nodded along with the rest of my head. "I'm fine," I said. "Just a little tired." Esther was mine, and no one else's. I lost her, Carol didn't. One o'clock rolled around, and I collected my hat from the back room. As I walked out towards the sliding door exit, I saw the
Ghirardelli's. Carmel filled. It's funny how the smallest, most insignificant thing can trigger something I hoped was emotion. I walked past the display. "No chocolate for Esther today?" Carol called after me, forehead scrunched into a sea of wrinkles.
"Not today," I said softly. Tipping my cap over my forehead, I gave her a slight wave goodbye as I walked out the door. For some reason, I felt a lump rising in my throat. No more chocolate purchases. As I rode home, I naturally thought about David. Nothing new, nothing strange. I usually just wondered where he was, what he was doing, things like that. From what I could tell, he had become quite successful. He called himself a business man, but I never really figured out what it was that he did. Samantha was a grade school teacher. I was a little warm by the time I arrived home. The sun at one o'clock was at it's peak temperature, somewhere in the upper seventies. Perfect as always. I smiled to
myself as I heard the familiar whine of my brakes, the steady clicking of the peddles as I dismounted. Leaning it up against the house, I made my way along the stone pathway that led to our porch, carefully avoiding the neatly trimmed flowers and limbs of shrubs that lined the walk. Clarke was waiting for me at the door as I opened it, and he rushed out towards the garden as soon as I walked in. I began to heat up my lunch, tomato soup, and poured his lunch into a dish. I clicked on Sinatra to keep me company. As I sat down with my soup, I knew I
had to call David. I was afraid. Afraid he wouldn't bother to answer. Afraid he would be angry. Or maybe, I was afraid that he wouldn't be sad, or angry. That he wouldn't have any regrets. Even though we never talked, I still had his number memorized. I guess it's one of