Page 78… in a fiction series
Miranda took the last sip of her Dewers and water. Since the incident in Detroit, she cut back to two drinks a night, three on weekends. It felt good to know that she could control her drinking without the help of AA. A little self-discipline was all she needed to stay sober.
The man in the navy blue blazer was dressed for the occasion. His gray hair was thinning and combed over to one side. Dark eyebrows framed his face, his jaw firmly set. He looked like someone who might have a bad temper now and then, but Miranda knew it was wrong to judge by appearances. She also noted that he was very tan, well before the start of the summer boating season. Miranda was curious.
She wondered what Drew was doing tonight… probably scrubbing the grime off his hands after fixing the old Chris Cadet, eating cold pizza, and watching the Final Four on TV. She could see him high five-ing himself when the Wolverines scored. For a moment Miranda admitted she didn’t like manicured hands. She liked hands that were big and manly. And she definitely preferred a ride on a motorcycle to the late-model Jaguar parked in her driveway.
But inertia was luring her down a familiar path, a tired stroll through a garden of shiny glass flowers, fake rocks, and weeds as smooth as velvet. It all seemed very real, so full of life! Completely aware of her intentions, Miranda smiled at her guest on the other side of the glass. Life was easier with an American Express card– could anyone deny it? She wanted to buy some new dresses, drink martinis at the club, and host a big New Years Eve bash!
At the same time, Miranda was tormented and conflicted… thought about last night at the boathouse. Had anyone else ever tucked her into bed so sweetly that way… or offered her the last piece of homemade buttermilk pie? She actually liked hanging out in her Old Navy shorts, and craved an interesting conversation over one of her manic spending sprees. She should have cancelled her date, stayed there with him.
In a well rehearsed smile, she opened the door. The man in the navy blue blazer extended a manicured hand and said, “Dominic Manos. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Miranda.”
She remembered the time she was paying for a stack of magazines before boarding a plane to West Palm Beach. Leaving the newspaper stand in a hurry to catch her flight, she spun around and walked right into him. She was embarrassed. He smiled and said her name, then studied her as she quickly walked away. She pushed the uncomfortable memory aside and invited him in.
He carried yellow roses and a bottle of Bordeaux, an indication that he was probably ready for a drink. Miranda went to the kitchen, poured a glass of wine and spilled the other. Something didn’t feel right. She cleaned up the mess, decided she was fine. A quiet voice of wisdom– was it Drew?– told her to ask Manos to leave, to send him away while there was still time.
To be Continued…
*This story is based on some true events, however, has been fictionalized and all persons appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
© 2012, Shoes for an Imaginary Life. All rights reserved.