The Dinner Party

by Megan Park

illsutration by zach pullen

My old lover stopped by. Just dropped in. He’s never done that before. Julie found him in the hallway as she was coming back from the liquor store. They entered the kitchen together, her arm looped through his. “I found him wandering the hallway. Anybody recognize him?”
He was neatly dressed in jeans and a denim shirt but smelled of industrial kitchen.
I had invited my single friends over for Valentine’s Day dinner. Tom hated dinner parties. Hated company—especially my company. My guests, I mean. Uncharacteristically rattled, Tom blinked around the table, seeking me out, stumbling over words. He knew he’d made a mistake by coming, but had been caught before he could sneak out.
He didn’t know any of these people except Steven, my boss. I had met these people since the breakup. When Tom and I were a couple, we had coupled friends. Now that I was a single, I had singular friends. Birds of a feather, I suppose.
Coincidentally, there were an even number of women and men at my party. It wasn’t planned; none of us were paired (officially), but I could see Tom trying to make the connection of who was with whom, and more specifically, who was with me.
I think back a lot to our breakup. It’s been nearly a year now but the pain can still be raw. I think specifically, remorsefully, of the week between my announcement that I was moving out and my actual move. Tom seemed to just swallow the news. We both cried but there was no struggle.
During that week, I brought carloads of my belongings to my new place. The last thing to bring was the bed, and so, for the entire week, we slept together. Quietly. His back to me, my nose between his shoulder blades. His arm on top of my arm around his waist. It seemed that we had to have contact that last week. I asked if he’d prefer me to sleep on the couch. He always insisted I stay with him in the bed. There was no kissing or sex. Just warmth and familiarity.
When I finally moved in—into this apartment—I used to cry myself to sleep over that last week. It was funny; I didn’t cry over the last four years. Just that week. And mostly I cried for him. How co-dependent.
I cried imagining what it must have felt like for him to have me lying there with my arm around him, knowing that I was leaving and there was nothing he could do. Not that he tried.
I cried for the helplessness of it. For the loneliness.
I wonder if he cried.
No matter. He’s at my party now. His eyes are locked on mine. The look is apologetic and at the same time begging for mercy.
I get up from my seat next to Bart. (“Is he the one?” Tom’s eyes ask.) I pour Tom a glass of Merlot.
As he takes the glass, he explains, “I just got off work.”
“I gathered.” I introduce him around. Steven engages him in light conversation, occasionally sending me mocking glances. For once, he has the sense to play along. Not cause trouble. It would be just like him to blurt out something like, “So, you’ve come back for seconds…”
Let me explain. It’s not that I wouldn’t want my new friends to know that this Tom is my Tom, but now just wasn’t the time. These new people of mine know too much of my old Tom. The good. The bad. The pathetic.
Tom’s not a bad guy. He’s well-groomed, polite, hardworking. (My father once compared him to a maitre ‘d.) He has a good sense of humor and is as faithful as a dog.
Four years. The longest I’d been with anyone. There was once, when Tom was away on business, that I contemplated sleeping with our neighbor. Just bored, I guess. I didn’t, of course. How could I? I was ashamed of myself for even thinking the thought. Tom took fidelity very seriously. Many times I had heard the story of how he had walked in on his ex-wife and another man. They were separated at the time, but trying to reconcile—or so he says. He always used that one isolated event as an explanation for his jealous streak.
I never bought it. It just made me mad. The jealousy, I mean.
We fought a lot over it. And ultimately, broke up over it. It wasn’t identified as such at the time. I simply explained to him—that last week in April—that his inherent distrust of people and my inherent curiosity for people were never going to mesh. He was constantly barricading himself in while I was continually rushing out. Different, very different, views of the world.
And here he is. The uninvited guest at my party. His discomfort level peaks, he finishes his wine, pecks my ear and excuses himself.
I walk him to the door.
“Sorry to interrupt” / “Nice to see you,” we say together.
“No matter what, always know I loved you.” He leaves.
I still have his odd parting words rolling around my brain when I re-enter the kitchen. Christina walks over with my wine glass and hers, both full. She hands mine over.
“Thank God he played it cool!” she says before gulping half her Merlot.
“You know Tom?”
Her eyes widen. “I never told you about Tom!?! We worked at the bistro together two years ago.”
“Two years ago?” I echo.
“Do you know how sexy a restaurant is after closing?” Christina asks, her eyes far away and dreamy. “Dark inside, streetlights outside. All the food you care to drip, drizzle, drag and nibble off another person’s body. Those pristine white tablecloths on every table and the knowledge that unsuspecting customers will be picking crumbs off them the next day. Tom and I used to close together on Wednesday and Sunday nights.”