She Turned Around; He Didn’t.

She Turned Around; He Didn’t.


The indoor passageway between the Paris hotel and Bally’s in Vegas has small shops and open bistros on both sides.

I was watching people from a table at one of these “sidewalk” coffee shops, when I saw a man walking past me, left to right, ten or so feet in front of his wife (I assumed.) Without turning around, he snipped, “I’m not going to keep slowing down for you!”

The woman stopped, a few feet to the left of me, tilted her head slightly and then shook it. He kept walking.

She was attractive. In her mid-thirties. Her t-shirt had a picture of a panda in a red bowl happily eating ramen noodles. She was wearing blue jean shorts and brown sandals.

She caught my eye and instead of glaring or acting as though I should be minding my own business, which maybe I should have, she gave me a slight conspiratorial shake of her head and reached her hand into her front pocket. She pulled out her cell phone and tossed it in my direction. A good throw.

I caught the phone. It was an iPhone, of course, with a pink frame.

When I looked back towards her, she had already turned around and was walking left, the opposite direction of the man I assumed was her husband.

She was not walking any more quickly than before.

I looked to the right and saw her husband still briskly moving forward. He was about a hundred feet away at this point and I barely heard him say, “I am not slowing down for you.”

I looked left, but the woman was gone. I looked right and now the man was out of sight, as well. No one else seemed to have noticed the episode.

I put the iPhone onto the table and finished my coffee and muffin.

Then I put her iPhone in my pocket (next to my own iPhone) and started heading to the elevators.

Suddenly there was loud music playing from my pocket.

Late night, come home
Work sucks

Blink 182, I think.

I know

I pulled the phone from my pocket to see a picture of the woman and a man hugging in front of a waterfall. The caller ID was “Brent.” I assumed it was her husband.

She left me roses by the stairs

I considered letting it go to voicemail.

Surprises let me know she cares

But I pressed ‘answer.’

“Where the fuck are you?”

I thought about hanging up, but, I guess, she had given me her phone.

“Almost at the elevators at Paris.”

“Wh-” Pause. And then he hung up.

I stood still, phone in hand.

Late night, come home

I pressed ‘answer’ again.

“Where the fuck are you?” Less insistent this time, but still pretty shrill.

“Maybe if you were less of an asshole, she would be with you,” I replied.

“Who the fuck are you? Where the fuck is Morgan? If you fucking hurt one hair on her head, I’ll fucking kill you!”

He was not a large man, so I wasn’t very concerned at the threat, though I wasn’t stupid enough to stand still and wait for him. I stepped into the elevator.

“Pretty clear now why she gave me her phone and left you.”

Unsure how much he had heard. The signal was lost.

I stepped off the elevator and the phone rang, a normal ring. The caller ID was blocked. I was gong to let it go to voice mail, but decided to answer, though I said nothing.

“This is Morgan. I threw you my phone.”

“Hello, Morgan.”

“Thanks for picking up.”

“Do you want your phone back?”

A soft sigh and then, “I’m not so sure.”

“I don’t blame you,” I said.

She laughed. After a pause, she asked, “Can we talk for a bit?”

“Over the- your phone. Yes. But not in person.”

“I meant over the phone.”

The phone indicated there was another call. It was Brent.

“I have another call,” I said.

“Brent?” she asked. “That’s my husband.”

“Yes. I’ll let it go into voicemail. Blink-182?”

“Yup. He used to be very attentive.” Pause. “Then he started making money and I became less important than his work and money, I guess. Or I got in the way.”

“What is the name of the song?”

“All the small things.”

I laughed.

“Funny why?”

“Because the same small things that makes people marry are the reasons written on the divorce papers.”

Brent was trying to get through again, but I ignored it.

“Not in this case. He changed.” Pause. “Are you married?”

“Yes. We’re here celebrating our lucky thirteenth anniversary.”

“That’s nice. We’re here for our eleventh, so it’s not even work. Where is she? Your wife, I mean.”

“At the spa getting a lime and ginger polish.”

She laughed. “Really?”

“Hard for me to make that up.”

She laughed again. And then started crying. “I’ll call you back.”

Before I could put the phone back in my pocket it started singing, “Late night, come home.” I pressed the side button and it stopped.

After he tried to call me three more times I flicked the ‘silent’ switch.

--

About a half hour later ‘blocked’ was calling again. I picked up without saying anything.

“Sorry about that,” she started, “I kind of lost it for a second there.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“Can we talk for a bit? I expect you have at least another 2 hours to wait for your wife.”

“Ninety minutes.”

“Can we?”

“Sure. I’m entertained.” She said nothing. I added, “I was just planning to relax and do some people watching this morning, anyway.”

“You certainly found some,” she laughed.

“That I did.”

“How did you know she was the one? Do you ever snip at each other? Fight?”

I shrugged. Not something I planned to discuss.

“What’s your plan forward,” I asked. “Is this a common thing for you and him?”

“No. Unless you mean him yelling at me and then, yes, that has become all too common. But I never walked away before. I can put up with a lot until I can’t take it anymore. I was just thinking, ‘If he says one more nasty thing to me, I’m done’ when he yelled at me to hurry up. Then I caught your eye. And I was ashamed.”

“You didn’t look it.”

“I’m the good wife. I can hold my emotions in check.”

“Until you can’t.”

“Until I won’t.”

“So what now?”

“I need someone to talk to.”

“Where are you calling from?”

She laughed. “The Apple store.”

“Very clever.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t you have any friends or parents?”

“First I wanted to see if you still had my phone. Then I figured you’d be the best impartial advisor.”

“Hardly. I think Brent’s an asshole. And told him so.”

“You talked to Brent? What did he say?”

Using his tone of voice, “Where the fuck are you? Who the fuck are you?”

She laughed for two beats, then, quickly, “I’ll call you back.”

--

And that was it.

Before I went to find my wife at the spa, I handed the iPhone to the concierge at the Paris and told her it was Morgan’s phone but I did not know Morgan’s last name.

I added, “Perhaps she’ll call. Or her husband Brent will.”

She took the phone and the “husband” comment without question. This was Vegas.

--

That was five years ago. To the day. To the hour, actually.

My wife Joan and I have since divorced. We made it to sixteen and then, well, all the small things, I guess.

Of course you know where I’m sitting when I write this. And, if it were a movie, what would happen next.

However, my muffin has long since been eaten and my coffee has gotten cold. I sit there anyway, not expecting Morgan to suddenly sit down next to me, but wondering what happened to them in the past five years. Are they, unlike Joan and me, still together? Or did she keep walking away? And what happened next?

As I watch people walk by, I play both scenarios out in my head, which I’ve done many times since.

A couple walks toward me from the left, the same direction as Morgan and Brent did five years ago. They look somewhat similar in shape and size. They, too, are in their mid thirties. She is also wearing a t-shirt, jean shorts and sandals. But they are hip to hip. His right arm is around her waist. Her left hand is on the front of his thigh. Right in front of me, he pulls her to a stop, turning her to face him and, for no reason I can see, kisses her on the forehead. She rises on her toes and kisses him back on the lips. Then they turn forward and keep walking to my right.

Now that’s more like it.

THE END.