Wine At One O’Clock
Coffee Break Tale
My heart hammers as Joe walks in. I’m desperate to speak but promised I wouldn’t. “I’ll never learn if you keep speaking out,” he’d said gently. So I remain where I am, biting my lip. The picture over the fireplace is wonky and I long to straighten it. Things like that bother me but they don’t bother Joe; never have done, never will. Not now.
I watch him running his big, square hands along the back of the sofa, turning left, feeling for the table. He trips slightly. That rug will have to go.
He settles in the armchair and grins at me, triumphant.
“Easy peasy.” The smile on his face is like the sun coming out. I’m glad that he’s beginning to find his confidence again. I wish I could be enthusiastic – but the more he wants to step out into the world, the more I become afraid.
He was so angry to begin with, angry with the world but mostly with himself. So many things got broken – which never matters, as they are easily replaced – but Joe’s spirit being broken was the hardest. “Are you ready, then?” I nod, then remember. “Yes, I’m ready.” I take his hand and he stands up, putting his arm round me. “Let’s go and celebrate your birthday.” He’s made a reservation at The Captain’s Table on the promenade and we put on our coats and step outside. The walk will do me good, settle my nerves. I’ve braced myself for the looks and stares he won’t see and I’m already feeling indignant on his behalf.
It’s fairly busy when we get there; couples seated by the window watch as we approach the entrance. Joe squeezes my hand. I can tell he’s nervous. I can feel it through his skin. It’s funny how all my senses seem to have become primed, even though Joe is the one who has lost his sight.
The waiter leads us to our table, takes our drinks order and hands us a menu. I read it out to Joe, even the things I know he won’t like so that he can choose. Joe touches the table and feels for the knives and forks. The waiter brings the drinks. I lean forward when he’s gone. “Wine at one o clock,” I say helpfully and he reaches out, assuredly, and takes the glass, sips the wine.
“Good choice,” he says, giving his glass a gentle turn so that the wine dances around the sides. “Nice legs,” he grins before placing it back in exactly the same place. “Mine, or the wine’s?” “Both.” He reaches for my hand. “Happy Birthday, Krissy. I love you more than words can say.”
I know what he means because words are not enough at moments like these. I release my hand and as I do so, my spoon clatters to the floor.
“Butterfingers,” he says and we giggle companionably. Makes a change for me to be the clumsy one.
The meal is wonderful. We walk home under the stars, the moon bright. “That went well,” he says happily. It did, although my neck is sore with tension. He stops walking and puts his hands gently on my shoulders. “You can relax, you know.” He touches my face. Tears are threatening but there’s no way I want him to feel them.
As if he knows what I’m thinking he says, “I can’t see the stars, Krissy, but I know they’re there. Just like I can’t see you but I can feel you, touch you, smell you. I love that perfume, by the way.” I swallow hard, hoping he won’t notice. “More importantly, your kisses taste extra special somehow – more intense, more powerful.” “Steady on,” I laugh. He pauses. “I don’t need you to be angry or anxious, Krissy. I don’t want you not to enjoy all that you have. Don’t waste it on my behalf.”
Then he leans forward and kisses me and the stars and the moon are in my heart and my head and I realise that it isn’t what I see but what I feel that makes me happy.
Even so, he was right – he usually is. I think I’ll straighten that wonky picture when we get in.