Read this Short Story about a Wife's Brief Moment of Freedom After Quarantine
Author Lorrie Moore once said, “A short story is a love affair, a novel is a marriage.” With Sunday Shorts, OprahMag.com invites you to join our own love affair with short fiction by reading original stories from some of our favorite writers.
With news of vaccines, there might just be a light at the end of this tunnel. One question on many people's minds is: What's the first thing you'll do when it's totally safe to go outside and be among people again?
Bestselling author Jessica Francis Kane's new short story, "Sitting Close," offers a surprising, slyly funny take on this situation. After "the pandemic," V, the protagonist, has returned to work, and on her way home for the evening, she decides to stop for a slice of pizza. V is "happily married" to a man with whom sheltering in place had been a "study in contrasts": "He played 16th-century chant to start each pandemic day; she wanted jazz. In the evening he wanted the news; she craved books or movies."
As such, V prizes this chance to treat herself; she'd missed eating out at restaurants. Also enticing: the chance to flirt with a stranger who isn't her husband.
Just like in her novel Rules for Visiting, one of our favorite books from last year, Kane deftly balances the seemingly competing desires of connection and solitude.
"Sitting Close"
The winter after the pandemic, when the remaining restaurants were open again, V had to go to the city for work. Her husband had said she should treat herself to at least one nice dinner, so after a long day she looked into an elegant place that was pleasantly full, not crowded, they never were anymore. She’d missed dining out during the sheltering, but this place felt too nice to eat in alone. She just wanted something warm for dinner, then sleep. After a few more blocks, she chose a pizza place around the corner from her hotel.
The table the hostess showed her to was in a raised section at the front of the restaurant, a few steps up from the main floor. Every time the door opened, V felt a blast of cold air.
Her server’s name was Selena. V ordered a glass of red wine and an American Hot pizza.
“Salad?” Selena asked.
V shook her head. She almost added, “That’s what the jalape?os are for,” but her heart wasn’t in it. Selena was slender and young and pretty. V felt none of those things.
A man sitting alone in the booth next to V was halfway through his pizza and a glass of wine. He was facing the front windows of the restaurant, while V faced into the space, so they were well-positioned in each other’s peripheral vision, a few feet of blue-tiled floor between them.
V opened her book. It was the last one she’d started during the sheltering and she still hadn’t finished it.
She shuddered in a long draught from the front door.
“You can join me, if you’d like,” the man in the booth said. He also had a book.
V smiled. “No, thank you. I’m fine.”
“Just an option,” he said, holding up both hands in a show of innocence. “I know it’s cold there. She gave me that table first.”
V smiled again and re-committed herself to her book.
Eighties music was playing overhead and it was the third time that day V had been subjected to it, the high school soundtrack of anyone in their forties. It seemed to be everywhere all of a sudden. She thought of it as their collective nostalgia made audible. She scanned the restaurant for Selena and her wine.
In her peripheral vision, V saw the man in the booth looking again in her direction. She took a pen from her bag and kept reading. After a moment, she underlined a sentence, not because it charmed her but in order to look focused, occupied. It was her old trick when dining alone and it usually worked.
“Sorry this took so long,” Selena said, appearing with her wine.
“Thank you!” Not wanting Selena to think she was impatient, she added, “It’s nice to see a restaurant so busy.”
Selena nodded, then turned and asked the man in the booth if he needed anything.
“There’s plenty of room,” he said when Selena was gone. “The offer stands if you change your mind.”
He was good-looking, what her friends would probably call hot, though that word had never tripped off her tongue. The front door opened and this time the cold air had the smell of exhaust in it.
“Suit yourself,” he said. His tone implied she was suffering needlessly.
V underlined another sentence.
Was she suffering needlessly? She honestly didn’t know if he was hitting on her or not and felt stupid even wondering. She was 47, happily married, even after the pandemic. Sheltering alone with her husband had been a study in contrasts, but they’d made it.
He played 16th-century chant to start each pandemic day; she wanted jazz.
In the evening he wanted the news; she craved books or movies.
He exercised more. They had a treadmill in the dining room. She drank more.
He’d maintained, or perhaps even lost weight. She had most certainly gained.
At one point, she envied all the homeschooling parents. That seemed like a nice common project, until it didn’t.
He limited his time on social media. She...well, she did not. Someone had to scour the internet for the videos that would make them laugh and cry in those days. That was her job.
They were not unhappy in the least. These were all differences they noted and discussed and even made jokes about, usually at dinnertime, which was their best coming-together-hour in those days. But months later she was left with a feeling of something having shifted. Not in their relationship; she was certain she still loved him. But in her own sense of herself. Her husband was the more capable one in an emergency. There was no question he’d set the schedule that helped them survive. But she’d found the things that reminded them why they needed to. She’d cried more and laughed harder at all the videos. Now she wanted to trust more and take chances. She wanted to see kindness everywhere.
The music in the restaurant changed to something V didn’t recognize, a few repeated notes over a pulsing rhythm.
She considered the situation from the man’s perspective. He had room in his booth for two; she was cold and sitting in a draught. He knew this because he had been in her position earlier. Could it be that simple? Could it be just this one, small, kind thing? A way for two people to sit closer in a time when they could because now everyone knew how awful it felt when you couldn’t? She wanted it to be this and only this.
“American Hot,” Selena said, bringing V’s food.
All right, Mr. Warm Booth, V thought. She actually called him that in her mind. All right. Let’s see.
“You know,” V said, loud enough to catch the man’s attention. “My food is going to get cold here fast. Maybe I will take that seat.”
“Good,” he said. “Please.”
Right away he shifted himself and his food farther into his corner while V settled into the seat diagonally across from him. He didn’t introduce himself, and neither did V. That seemed like a good sign. V opened her book and took a bite of pizza. She had to use her fingers to break a long stretch of cheese, and perhaps because he was eating with a knife and fork, and her book fumbled to her lap, she apologized for her messy manners with a hunch of her shoulders and a smile through the cheese.
“Is it good?” he asked. “Your book?”
V nodded and wiped her mouth, a bit more carefully than she would have done alone, she realized.
He held up his own book, though he’d removed the jacket so she couldn’t tell what it was. “Started it during the pandemic.”
“Me too,” V said.
“Do you live here?” he asked.
“No. Business trip.”
Selena approached them. “Everything okay?” she asked, clearly curious about V’s table switch.
“Very good,” V said. “I just moved to be warmer.”
Selena nodded and turned to wipe down the first table, then asked if they needed anything else.
“Another glass of wine?” the man said in a general way that may or may not have been meant to include V.
V hesitated, confused.
“Make it two,” he said to Selena, then looked at V with a shoulder raised as a question.
V smiled. “Yes, thanks,” she said. “But,” and she turned to Selena, “mine on my check. We’re just--”
“Sharing a table,” Selena said. “Got it.”
The exchange was awkward; at worst, presumptuous. But things had only just started opening up again and people were remembering how to be together. V decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. And when the wine came, he raised his glass toward her and said, “To sharing a table.”
V raised hers, too.
The strange pulsing music kept on. There were scraps of voices in it too, as if from a crackling radio far away.
By the time Selena asked about dessert, she was treating them as a table. “Will you be having dessert this evening?” she asked them.
V glared at her, but Selena was oblivious. When she shook her head, he declined, too.
Selena stepped away to attend to another table, four women about V’s age whose laughter had been loud earlier but who were now somber. One of them was crying; another had beckoned Selena, who leaned low and spoke quietly to them. Later she saw Selena bring out some extra napkins and then four desserts. She couldn’t imagine four women of that age ordering four desserts and decided they must have been on the house.
When Selena brought the checks, she said, “No rush. Whenever you two are ready.”
V sighed.
The man closed his book. “Would you want to go somewhere for a drink?”
V pretended she hadn’t heard him.
“Where are you staying?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Here.”
“Ah. Are the rates good?”
V smiled. Out of habit, she was certain.
“Nearby?”
She looked at her watch, though she knew what time it was. “I’m not going to tell you where I’m staying.”
“All right. Well, I’m in the hotel around the corner. The bar there is nice.”
“I’m married.”
“I wondered. You’re not wearing a ring.”
“Better for handwashing.”
“Right,” he said. “Me too.”
Selena appeared. He handed her his card and slid to the end of the booth so he was directly across from V.
“Who were you with?” she asked. Everyone asked this.
“My wife and mother-in-law. Our kids. What about you?”
“Just my husband.”
They sat in silence. V knew he was staring at her, but she kept her eyes on her book. He crossed his arms and leaned back in the booth.
“Why did you change your mind and take the seat?” he asked.
“It was an experiment, actually. We failed.”
He made a sound in the back of his throat and balled up his receipt. “If you change your mind again, I’ll be at the bar around the corner.”
He pitched the paper at the end of the table and left.
When Selena returned with the menu V asked her to bring another glass of wine instead of dessert.
“Your friend is gone?” Selena asked, returning with the wine.
“He wasn’t my friend,” V said. “Just a seat out of the cold. Nothing more.”
Selena raised her eyebrows. “The world hasn’t changed that much.” She put V’s new receipt on the table. “You have a good rest of your night.”
V dug her phone out of her bag. She would find someone who agreed with her. She texted a friend, but the friend replied: -- You moved tables? What were you thinking?
-- That in this age of catastrophe and violence we should be able to sit closer when we can without it necessarily meaning anything?
Her friend sent back a row of laugh/crying faces. Then: -- Do you have someone you can walk out with?
-- What?
-- What if Mr. Warm Booth is outside hoping for another chance?
-- That’s ridiculous.
-- Just be careful. You never know. Don’t forget #MeToo.
V stared at the screen a minute, then sent a sad face.
Her friend sent back a purple heart, their signal for love and understanding but needing to go. It was late where she was and she would be putting her children to bed.
V texted her husband. He asked a surprising number of questions about the positioning of the two tables and the cold draught, but ultimately said he would not have offered the seat to a woman dining alone. She asked him if he’d drawn a map.
-- I just wanted to make sure I understood!
She sent a red heart. Then another.
-- V, are you okay? Are you near your hotel?
She didn’t answer. She didn’t know what the right words were and he didn’t like emojis. She felt both na?ve and guilty and it was unpleasant.
While V finished her wine, she watched Selena work. She was good at her job—calm, efficient, patient. She never stopped moving. V wondered if she’d kept this pace all through the pandemic, delivering food for the restaurant. When Selena cleared the 4-top where the women had been, she found a scarf one of them had left behind, a beautiful burnt orange heap. V saw her slow down and appreciate how soft it was before draping it slowly, carefully over the back of a chair.
The 80s music looped back on, all relentless pep and melody. V counted out cash to pay her bill. Then she stood, gathered her things, and swung by the 4-top on her way out. She grabbed the scarf and found Selena, who was in the middle of taking a new order.
“Have it,” she said, thrusting the expensive material into Selena’s arms. “You should have it.” Her thinking was hazy, but she felt new rules for a new time had to start somewhere.
V turned and aimed for the door, her keys threaded through her fingers, just in case. It was an old trick she’d used years ago to feel safe.
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