Well Done
flash fiction | strange clarity
“Make it well done.” Harold barked the order in his routine irritable fashion.
His wife flashed a weak smile at the waiter and then returned to her husband. “Harold, you know you can’t order steak well-done here.”
“This place is expensive enough that I should be able to have it however I want.”
Marianne clasped her hands, observing her one-appeal limit for brick walls.
The waiter remained poised and offered a peace token. “Sir, today we have some excellent sea bass.”
Before he could explode, Marianne resolved a brand-new tack, albeit one that had been simmering for some time. Rather than endure another dinner listening to a barely suppressed tirade, she opted to upend it. “We need to talk about divorce.”
Harold’s face, transitioning from red to rage before she spoke, now froze with such shock, it was as if the entire restaurant stopped in unison.
Marianne herself reacted in disbelief recognizing she spoke the words aloud. But instead of dismay, she sat straighter.
Her awareness expanded.
A strange clarity washed over.
She somehow knew the couple to her left were celebrating that husband’s promotion.
She glanced at another couple. Although she couldn’t hear a word of their conversation, she perceived with certainty it was a birthday date.
The hostess was leading a foursome near their table. Although the hostess was poised, Marianne could feel her remorse over the recent loss of her mom. Was Marianne making this up?
She glanced back at the waiter, standing speechless with wide-eyed uncertainty and then back at her husband stilled in time. “Harold, your unreasonable stubbornness has distanced our friends, estranged our children, and turned you into a cranky old curmudgeon who has lost all connection to common sense.”
Harold remained paralyzed. Then looked to the waiter, standing at attention between the worlds of anywhere and nowhere. Harold gazed back at his wife, as if terrorized by a force for which he had no defense.
Marianne continued. “I’m willing to listen to any reasonable declaration of change, but since that’s unlikely, let’s talk about splitting our assets.”
All the color drained from Harold’s face. He looked up at the waiter again. “Please,” he whispered, “make it medium.”
by George Alger
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