Leeward

mid-winter

It was the first snow of December. It was the first snow of the year. A man and a woman were meeting for dinner. She, down the sloped hill. He, from the mouth of a parking garage. This remained consistent amongst the variations of their coupling, setting off from two distinct streets to meet at a corner. This arrangement suited them in different ways.

On free street the star flecked flag on the poles swung on the heavy spar towards leeward. Ferry boats, sloughed with snow tilted leeward. Heavy cranes cranked in place could not tilt leeward. Inland, the woods pushed by winds that flung them, hissing leeward.

The man had made a reservation. They met in the doorway of the flat faced restaurant. Leeward. It was warm. Dry. Tastefully decorated in a way that made one think differently about negative space. In the entrance they began the methodic process of unwinding themselves: sleeve, jacket, hat, scarf. It was noted that there were more staff than patrons. The hostess asked, bar or table. The woman gave the man a look. The look said choose. Her head was full of the red cranberries which had burst from the bog on route 202, the particular way the bone-diced cold filled her with anticipation, and how walking here she’d watched the body of a dead man lift off ground. She felt it lingering on her, the particular correspondence between the dryness of the snow and her own particular sensation of being alive. The hostess asked, again bar or table. Bar, she wanted to say, but it was melting off of her, the self possession she had when outside, puddling at her feet, and in her sudden shyness that sometimes occurred around the man began to second guess herself.

Bar, he said. They sat.

He looked at the yellow mustard wall that pressed out spirits beneath the gold rimmed landscapes. She looked at how the bluescaped snow felled the night.

7

She requested a glass of french wine - du pas st-martin “sous le tilleul” and when the litre bottle came with its white and orange label, found her mouth could not pronounce - grolleau noir. He ordered a martini: joe formaggio, gins, vermouth, parmigiano-reggiano, lemon agrumato. Infusion, he said. Infusion, the bartender repeated. The rinds had been barrelled for three days with the gin. She came to feel that the two men were conspiring against her over the twelve inch space of the counter. She paged the menu with her thumb. He considered the mathematics of extraction, how a solvent compounds flavor neatly over time, he felt the particular ridges of the flute of his glass, remarked that it was a touch too ornamental for his taste, and pressed back easily into his highbacked chair. She watched it happen at the restaurant bar, how easily the man settled into his presence.

8

Contrary to the rest, the man and the woman were in agreement as to what to consume. Mussels in saffron cream: white wine, spinach, fennel pollen, sambuca, sourdough. Fusilii, with green curled edges, kale and pine nut pesto, lemon zest.

She ordered before he could - asked for the dishes to be brought together.

9

Tonight, perhaps the dishes separate, the bartender countered, no need to rush back into the snow, right? He said, looking only at the man. Beneath it, the bartender’s soft amusement. She wanted to tell him no, you misunderstand, it was not my intention to hurry the leaving, or hurry the leaving of this man, only to correct my previous indecisioning, to display an exercise of choice. Yet, she knew, just the waiter knew, just as the man knew that her decision was wrong. Separately, then, she laughed. How funny, she thought that the yellow droplet on the surface of his gin had yet to break the surface, and how quickly the tannins in her own cup could taste like shame. She wondered if the snow outside had fastened itself like fur to the bay.

10

The mussels came, cracked shells in the orange pooled bowl, scooped the dawn robed saffron onto bread. How gently he turned the spoon on the plate towards her like clockwork.

11

They drank.

12

Plates emptied.

13

They split the bill.

14

Outside once again they re-ordered themselves. The woman breathed in cold until it cracked. He burrowed his mittened hands in his pockets on account of his poor circulation. Cold, he said. The man was always cold.

15

They began to walk.

16

As they walked, she had a desire to speak to him. You do not have to pardon me, she wanted to say, for my inability to pronounce fusili, grolleau, for my decisioning and in-decisioning. And I will not pardon you, for you cannot marvel at the snow, for how easily you grow cold.

If the woman had spoken she would have asked: why are we taught to think of love as infusion, isn’t it rather a question of insolubility. How that circle of oil comes to pool on the surface of the martini and never wavers? Polarity is made possible when you come to see how I need this blue-black night, as I see how you need that lit window.

Do you see it? The ways we fail one another.

One day, I could learn to order well. One day, you could begin to pick up snow. Or not. Maybe we will grow tired of these endless distances. You will watch a woman pass the window outside. I will watch a man order dinner. Or maybe, we will learn to hold the flute of a glass that holds a lake, that we have filled up with each distinct way we become alive. Maybe then, we choose that long walk home, together.