He thought it was their first date; she knew it was their anniversary.

She flicked a lighter to the candles placed upon the same kitchen table on which they had shared thousands of meals before this early January moment.

A week ago, his eyes glowed from the Christmas tree lights, an awestruck stare by the child within him that had become her reality ever since this wonderful man she was married to for 36 years had begun to drift away two winters past.

“I made your favorite dinner,” she said with a softness that often soothed his anxiety and confusion. He glanced at his plate of scallops carbonara tossed over angel hair pasta.

“You ordered this at a restaurant in Rhode Island when we went to Newport for our 10th anniversary,” she said. “The kids were only 7 and 5, then.” She streamed her eyes onto his face, once vibrant with so much energy and love for life, but now so empty as if his entire existence had vanished into some foggy night. He picked up his fork and bit into a scallop.

“I hope it tastes good,” she said with a thick voice.

After a few strands of pasta had slipped back onto his plate, he slammed his fork upon the table. She ignored his frustration and chose to think of the words he had sung to her on their wedding day from a time so remembered and yet, a time so forgotten.

“Well, it’s the same old song; it’s right and it’s wrong and livin’ is just somethin’ I do. And with no place to hide, I looked in your eyes, and I found myself in you.”

She wanted to play that song tonight, thinking it might return a rush of beautiful yesterdays, but decided that nostalgia would bring more suffering. Memories, like jagged glass, cut right through the heart of all that had been shared between them. Gone forever were couch and cuddle movie nights and afternoon card games rewarded with a golden trophy he presented one day proclaiming her the “Rummy Queen” champion of all time.

She glanced at the crystal vase behind him, once filled with flowers he brought home on any ordinary day. She left it there, layered in dust, as a token of her resentment that she was not supposed to feel. She promised herself that there’d be no more pity parties and no more tears; in fact, she stopped buying tissues after she had pulled the last one out of a box three days ago.

The clatter of forks disturbed the ever-present silence, a pervasive sound of its own that seized a home once filled with every noise of every kind, especially his Whiteface the Father Monster’s surprise attacks. With a face coated in all-purpose flour, he played cat and mouse games with the children until they collapsed on the floor, their bellies full of laughter.

She sipped a glass of Cabernet, and it warmed her mind. Tonight, after she put him to bed, she’d finish the bottle while watching a Katharine Hepburn movie. The double dose of the red wine and the brilliance of a strong female actress in a man’s world would curl her body into a fetal position before she fell asleep.

“Both kids called this afternoon,” she said, “They remembered today was our anniversary.” Lifting his head, he dropped his fork.

“You have children?” he asked. “You didn’t tell me that.”

“Yes, you have these children, too. We have a son and a daughter. I remind you of that every day.” His face twisted, an all too familiar sign that something was wrong.

“No! No!” he whined in his child’s voice. “That can’t be. I just met you. I don’t know you. There are no children!”

She got up and returned with a family photo taken at a vacation in Florida eight years ago. He stared at the picture long and hard before running his fingers over all their faces.

“Why am I in this picture? Is that you, too? And these kids. These … these …” He sat back in his chair.

“If they come around here,” he sneered, “I’m gonna dump a bag of flour on my head and scare them right out of this house!”

“Yes! Yes!” You do that!” she said with a jump. “They would love that very much!” He shook his head and stabbed another scallop off his plate.

She talked to herself in the mirror this morning. “I don’t think I have three years left.”

Her arthritis was advancing, crippling her body, mangling her fingers, wrenching her legs and ankles that caused a fall in the kitchen last week. On impulse, she called out to him, even though she knew he wouldn’t come to help. She stayed on the floor for some time, glaring at the ceiling.

“I asked you to paint the kitchen two years ago,” she had said to nobody. She forced a smile, one of many she thought needed from being committed for observation.

“You’d better go get that paint!” she shouted as loud as she could. “You don’t have much time left to get this done!” His doctor told her he was in his late stages of the disease. The expectancy would be no more than three years.

The dinner lingered. The silence thickened. He pushed his plate to the center of the table and wiped his mouth with his shirtsleeve.

“Would you like a piece of cake?” she asked. He nodded. She delivered the cake and he took a large bite.

“This is spice cake,” he said. “It’s my favorite.”

“Say that again,” she said.

“Say what?”

“Say what you said about the cake.”

“It’s spice cake. It’s good.”

She reached her hand over the table and placed it on top of his hand. He gently freed his fingers from her grasp and then placed his hand on top of hers and did something he had not done since he got sick. He tapped her fingers five times, their Jan. 5 anniversary date, in what was his customary act of gratitude for her serving them dinner on this kitchen table they bought from a furniture store that was now a parking lot.

“Oh,” she whispered.

Tears flooded her eyes. She reached for a tissue that wasn’t there. Falling back into her chair, she took a long drink of the Cabernet and looked the other away while he got up and walked out of the kitchen.

Email Rich Strack at richiesadie11@gmail.com