Interval â A short story
He stood like a stone amongst a gargling river of people. Eager theatre goers pushed past him towards the entrance as his eyes scanned the crowds. The likelihood of Violet showing up now was slim, but then heâd never been one to give up hope before he strictly had to. âChildlike positivityâ Violet liked to call it. She also liked to say that she found it endearing. Heâd wait here till the last call to be seated, and only then resign himself to a solitary night of theatre. Then again, she might still show.Â
As he stood there, Rowan couldnât help but feel alien in the buzzing crowd. There was a certain shine to their eyes, a pitch to their laughter and excited chatter. So effortless in their easy joy. So oblivious to his vigil. He wondered if Violetâs presence would make him feel less distanced from these happy people. As his eyes continued their journey across strange faces, they snagged on a forlorn figure. She was standing in the far corner of the sweeping staircase, arms crossed, eyes blank. Next to her, a bear of a man, on the phone, gesturing agitatedly. Not the only alien here, at least.
The crowd began to thin, and he could hear the speakers crackle into action. If the patrons could make their way to their seats please, the show was about to start.Â
Right, that was that then.Â
The play was Romeo and Juliet, of all things. Had Violet come it might have rekindled fiery discussions about the nature of love and how far devotion goes. The kind of discussion they used to have all the time, his heartfelt optimism clashing with her cynic realist views. Now they didnât really bother anymore. Maybe once youâd been together for a number of years there just wasnât anything left to discuss. Maybe you just naturally ran out of things to say to one another. And who knew if even Romeo and Juliet couldâve kept up all that passion over time.Â
The production was a good one, at the National Theatre. Rowan had, of course, seen the play before. In fact, it had been one of his and Violetâs first dates back in the day. Another reason why heâd bought the tickets on a whim. By the time it rang for the interval, he was at least distracted somewhat from his earlier morose thoughts.Â
He made his way to the bar and ordered a vodka martini. âNo olive, pleaseâ he asked as he fingered his tie. He sensed someone sitting down a couple of stools down from him. The barman served his drink, and an identical one a little further down the bar. Rowan glanced over, recognising the woman from earlier. She noticed him looking at her oliveless martini. âI prefer my snacks and alcohol separate.â she explained almost impatiently. âOh⊠Yeah me too.â he said gesturing at his own drink. She smiled humourlessly and turned her attention back to her martini. She took a sip, and glanced over, focusing on his tie. âNice tieâ. It wasnât. It was one of those ghastly nineties revival patterns. Like an abstract watercolour threw up on a piece of shiny satin. Violet and Rowan had seen it at Woolworths and joked about buying it. Heâd thought it might make her smile.
He shook his head and smiled. âItâs not, but thanks.â
âNo seriously, I like it. Shows some bloody character. Iâve looked at enough sterile business suits to last me a lifetime.â She laughs, suddenly self-conscious. âSorry.â Beat. âItâs just⊠my husband. He wears them a lot. Suits I mean. And his friends. Or colleagues, or whatever.â
Rowan smiled. âWell, youâve come to the right person. Nothing as stylish as that has ever even got within two meters of me.âÂ
âAnd letâs hope it never does.â She raised her glass in cheers.Â
He sipped. âSo, you enjoying the play?â
âYeah, I guess. Itâs pretty good. Seen it before, but I like what theyâve done with it.âÂ
âMhmh, actors are doing a decent job. âÂ
âAlthough Juliet is maybe a bit breathy for my taste.â â
Oh, I donât mind that so much. A young girl in loveâŠâÂ
âHa, because all women turn into breathy messes in the throes of true love? Please.â
As they talked Rowan watched the woman surreptitiously. She was not so much mousy as the kind of woman you had to appreciate up close. To notice how her soft brown locks brushed her cheeks. To see a blush give life to her pale skin as she got animated. If sheâd been blonde youâd have called her an English rose type of gal. As it was, she was bound to fade into the background next to pushier types of beauty.Â
'I'm Rosalind, by the way. Friends call me Rose.' She moved to sit on the stool next to his and offered her hand.
âAnd what a fitting name indeed. Iâm Rowan.â He took the offered hand and squeezed lightly.
She lifted her eyebrows at his attempted flattery. âAnd yours too! So tree-like.â
âWhy thank you. Strong and steady, thatâs what they call me.â He grinned.
âGive me that over pretty and pretentious anytime.â
âSure? And trade in the spectacularly handsome view?â
She ignored the question. âSo what brought you here tonight? Watching the romance of all romances?â
He ruffled his hair, uncomfortable. âWell. I guess IâŠâÂ
âSorry, didnât mean to pryâ
âNo, no, itâs nothing really. I bought the tickets as a surprise for my girlfriend. Violet. Only she already had plans. Girls night. Unlucky, I guess.â
âMust be some girls night.â
He felt guilty, making Violet sound bad âNo, I mean⊠Sheâs good at being organised. Great actually. She makes plans and doesnât like to change them, doesnât like to be unreliable. Admirable, really.â
Rose lifted an eyebrow. âNo offence to Violet, but⊠thereâs being reliable and then thereâs treating the one youâre supposed to love like shit.â
Rowan didnât know what to say. Rose went on, unabashed.
âI mean here you are, supposedly committed to one another. Loving one another, cherishing one another. Except all you get is a few hours over dinner every night listening to phone calls about some bloody business or another. Or a fecking night out at the theatre sat on your own because more fecking phone calls have to be made and someone couldnât give a flying fuck about romance anyway. Is that what you call love? Is it?!â
Previously lost in her tirade, Rose looked up then and caught Rowanâs eye, her cheeks flushed. She realised her outburst and looked down self-consciously, fiddling with the hem of her floral dress.Â
âSorry, IâŠâ
â⊠I guess weâre not really talking about Violet anymore?â
âNo, yes, I mean⊠Not specifically, no. But it sounds pretty darn close. My husband. Heâs very dedicated to his work. Canât let the company down, etc etc. needs to be reliable, la la la, always on call. Weâve not had an uninterrupted date night inâŠâ She threw up her hands âGod, I donât even know how long!â
âSounds frustratingâ
âYou think? Bloody infuriating is what it is. AlthoughâŠâ Her eyes regained their earlier forlorn look ââŠIâm not sure I even feel much of anything about the whole thing anymore. Guess humans get used to anything eventually.â
âAnd thatâs a good thing?â
âWell I donât know about good. But definitely easier than the alternative.â
âSo thatâs what we have to look forward to? That a difficult relationship will eventually stop being hard work and become tolerable? That if we only stick it out long enough weâll get used to it?â
She smiled sadly and both say silent for a moment, lost in their own thoughts.Â
He sat up straight. âNo!â
She raised her head âNo?â
âNo. I refuse to believe that thatâs what weâre reduced to. Waiting for unpleasantness to become so routine it becomes bearable; to look forward to the day we stop caring. Whereâs the romance, whereâs the fire in that! If thatâs all there is⊠whatâs there to live for?â
âAnd yet here you are, waiting for a woman who was probably never going to show up in the first place.â
He sighed. âYes, I am. Strong and steady, remember?â
She smiled.
âI still have hope you know. Iâm still not over that dream of love so bone deep itâll survive even the dreariest nonsense.â
âRomeo and Juliet, hey?â
He laughed loudly, genuinely. âRight. Maybe not the most hopeful example to hang onto⊠But yes.â He took her hand impulsively. âIâve always thought⊠Thereâs ideals. Thereâs love. True love. Iâve not given up on that yet.â
ââŠNo, me neitherâÂ
Their eyes met, both smiling.Â
He stroked her hand with his thumb, then let go. âDo you think weâre foolish?â
âFor hanging onto hope? MaybeâŠâ
âAnd for staying in hopeless relationships, regardless?â
âMaybe weâre secretly cynics after all.â
âOr just too scared to take risks anymore?âÂ
She replied quietly. âAnd that too.â
They hold each otherâs gaze and her face grew warm. He opened his mouth as if to say something, and was interrupted by the interval bell and crackling speaker.
She broke their gaze and laughed, embarrassed. âBetter get to the end of this tragedy thenâ
âYeah, I guess weâd better.â
âYeahâ
âYeahâ
â⊠Yeahâ
Theyâd both risen from their seats and were standing across from each other, suddenly unsure, their earlier ease turned to heart-thumping nerves. Rowan tried to catch Roseâs eye again but sheâd withdrawn back into herself.Â
An usher approached. âSir, maâam, if you could please make your way back to your seats? Weâre about to close the doors.â
Rose grabbed her bag distractedly and started moving towards one of the doors to the auditorium. âYes, of course, sorry.â She looked back at Rowan, who was still stood at the bar. He gestured in the opposite direction and shrugged, an apologetic smile on his face. âIâm this way.âÂ
âOh rightâŠâ Their eyes met again. âWell, enjoy the rest of the show.â
âYes, you too.â Rowan, made as if to say something, but sheâd already turned around and walked towards the door. With one last lingering gaze, Rowan smiled ruefully and turned away, slowly making his way back to his seat.