Every Wednesday I go to the dump; I call it Dump Day. It’s not that I have that much trash in the house, but with six horses, a week’s worth of wood-shaving plastic bags fills two 35-gallon garbage cans. Rather than let this accumulate, I designated Wednesday as my day to drive to the dump in town.
This Wednesday, as I was taking one of the 35-gallon cans from off the back of the truck, I heard an unfamiliar voice ring out “Aaron”. I turned, to a woman who had passed her first youth but still retained a je-ne-sais-quoi fascinating face that caused me to smile.
“Louise,” she said, “... Louise Neuland.”
“Louise,” I echoed, remembering the name but not the face. “What a nice surprise,” trying to place her, acknowledging to myself that I had known her ... sometime ago, just not exactly when.
“It’s been at least ten years,” Louise said. “You haven’t changed. I’m so glad to see you.”
While I couldn’t, with honesty, return the flattering remark — as I couldn’t remember her face from our last encounter — I set aside my garbage can and smiled, “Louise ....”
“You still have a bewitching smile, Aaron. It was one of your qualities that captivated me,” Louise demurred.
How could I possibly not say, “Louise, if you carry on, you’ll cause me to blush,” to which she came a step closer.
“What have you been up to, since I last saw you in your restaurant?” Now I remembered. With her husband, Louise would dine in my restaurant at least once a week; how could I forget such a loyal patron.
“After I closed The Chelsea Grill, I devoted my time to my animals — my horses, chickens, pigeons, and guinea hens — which I still do, and I write. What about you?” I didn’t ask about her husband as I wasn’t sure he was still in her picture.
“Well, you know Bob died ....”
“No, I didn’t; when?”
“Six years ago ... and while it is often lonely,” she stepped a little closer, “I have friends ....” and she came closer. “Do you live alone?” she asked in a hushed tone.
“Eh, yes. Since Janet died ....” I couldn’t continue; Louise’s gaze transfixed me.
“Why don’t we share a coffee,” she suggested.
“I would like that.” Looking at Louise, she suddenly appeared years younger, even younger than when I last saw her in my restaurant ten years before.
“Now?” she whispered.
When I didn’t answer immediately, she added, “At my place.” She enfolded my hand in hers and led me to her truck.
E.P. Lande, born in Montreal, has lived in the south of France and now, with his partner, in Vermont, writing and caring for more than 100 animals. Previously, as a Vice-Dean, he taught at l’Université d’Ottawa, and he has owned and managed country inns and free-standing restaurants. Since submitting less than three years ago, more than 100 his stories — many auto-fiction — and poems have found homes in publications on all continents except Antarctica. His story “Expecting” has been nominated for Best of the Net. His debut novel, “Aaron’s Odyssey”, a gay-romantic-psychological thriller, has recently been published in London.
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