Maureen was already there when I arrived at Sam’s Deli, where we’d first breakfasted together, after an all-nighter in the law office. The bars had long closed and it was close by, the pancakes generous with syrup, the coffee strong.
It was no longer convenient. Equally inconvenient, we’d agreed, the location settled after a good-faith negotiation.
She was sitting in one of the niches, away from the windows. Her hair was still hickory, the colour I guessed from a bottle, and clean but now reached her collar, something she’d not allowed it to do when we were married. She brushed the fringe above her eyes aside twice as I approached. She stood up – she wore an outfit to wear in front of juries, the navy one I had given her – and kissed me on the cheek with dry lips. She smelled of breath mints.
Maureen had a large black coffee, the saucer surrounded on the plastic table-cover by paper ribbons shredded from Barbie-pink sweetener packets and overlapping, imperfect circular scars left by hot plates. She held the cup tightly with both hands as if needing its warmth.
‘Hi, Mac. You’re looking well. How’s Brian?’
‘Excited. Can’t wait for his week with you.’
‘Good.’ She stared into her coffee.
‘Are you OK? Don’t worry if you can’t put up a tent – he’s been practising,’ I said. ‘Be impressed.’
She smiled briefly.
‘It will be fine. I’ll be fine,’ she said. ‘You can trust me.’
‘I know,’ I lied, looking into her lawyer eyes.
‘Is that why you wanted to meet? To check up on me? It is, isn’t it?’
‘No. It’s not that,’ I said, my excuse ready, ‘I wanted to talk about his birthday.’
When she had gone I took a sip from her cup: coffee and sweetener, nothing more.
Carsten ten Brink was born in Germany, raised in Australia, Japan and England, where he now lives. He is a writer, artist and photographer.
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