“He took a moment to look at his wife, thinking he could be a few minutes late and no one would mind. The boys would be throwing back Scotch at the Seasons bar without a second glance at their Rolexes. He walked over to the bed and ran his hand under the hemline of Lauren’s skirt. “I could convince you to change . . .”
“No,” she said, pushing him off. “It’s a party for one tonight . . . sorry.”
I write from memory. Fiction being fiction, embellished recollection is a more appropriate description of what falls on the page. Wandering into my protagonist’s mind as I set the above scene, I thought back to the years leading up to my thirties.
I remembered the beautiful girl who sat down next to me in Grammar for Journalism, sophomore year of undergrad. Meg – her honest smile, love of life, and amazing eyebrows. She could sing Blue Moon in perfect pitch and loved crab cheesecake. For over ten years, we were close friends until life wedged in between us.
Ironically, I reached out several months back asking permission to use Megan’s adage in my latest manuscript. We bantered, caught up, and then said goodbye. I smiled in the afterglow, reminded of moments shared decades before.
Last Saturday, Meg’s “party for one tonight” unexpectedly became forever. “A black celebration,” she would have said, laughing. Rest in Peace.