The Anniversary

There was her great-grandmother's black enameled pitcher with its burst of bright red and yellow flowers on their dark green stems. In another, she found tiny coffee cups laced with forget-me-nots and rimmed heavily in gold. Yet another held six silver-rimmed white plates. In the fourth she found matching bowls. The final box held serving pieces: a large plate, a butter dish, and a gravy boat. She handled them all lovingly, turning them over and over in her hands.

"Dinah! Where are you?" Jeff called from the hallway. He was a large man with reddish skin and light brown hair. He wore it cropped off around his ears and somewhat long in the back. He wore faded jeans and a rumpled blue t-shirt. As he passed by the coatrack, he threw his cap onto a hook there.

"In here with the remnants of my family," she called back sorrowfully. Dinah was small with dark brown hair and skin. Her mouth had fallen at the corners in a near-perpetual expression of dissatisfaction. As usual, she wore sweat pants and a sweat shirt. The set she wore on that day was pink.

"Oh," he said, appearing in the doorway. He surveyed the cloying neatness of the room with its small bottles of perfumes and its lace doilies set here and there under jewelry boxes and vases of artificial flowers. The bedspread was flowered with a white background and the curtains matched. It held five pink silk throw pillows with frilled and fluted edges. "Why do you go through all that old stuff? Why don't you either keep it out where we can use it or sell it and get rid of it?"

"You know the answer to that," Dinah protested just as a scream from Peter announced his presence again in the house. His sister whimpered after him.

"Kids," Jeff said, closing the bedroom door behind him. "Get back and wipe the mud off your shoes. Now!"

Peter and Grace retreated back to the mat by the front door and studiously wiped their boots, scuffing their feet loudly and pushing each other off balance. Little Grace fell finally off her feet and onto the carpet.

"Ow!" she screamed. "Stop it!"

"Peter! Leave your sister alone," his Dad admonished sternly. "Get upstairs now and wash your hands. We're having dinner soon."

Peter and Grace disappeared up the stairs in some semblance of order. Jeff opened the bedroom door again. He found his wife folding the top back of the last carton and pushing it back under their bed.

"One day," she said, "I'll have a fine corner china closet with a glass front and I'll show these pieces off and you and I will use them. We'll have guests that use them too."

Jeff ignored her. "Is dinner nearly ready?" he asked. "I'm starving."

"Get yourself a bowl of macaroni and cheese while you're waiting. Yes, I have something ready to fix in a minute," Dinah said, straightening up and brushing her pants in the front from lint on the rug. "I'll be in there in a second."

Jeff went into the kitchen and Dinah brushed her hair thoughtfully. She was so tired of a life of paper plates and her Mom's old everyday china. It was brown and chipped and looked unappetizing. Dinah put the brush down and dragged herself toward the stove. "We're having hamburger helper with broccoli and rice," she announced, taking the top of the skillet to show Jeff.

"Mmmmm," he said, approvingly, as he leaned over the skillet. "Smells wonderful. Need any assistance?"

"Nope," she said, reaching for her mother's old plates from the cabinet.

"Sure you do," he said helpfully. "I'll set the table for you."

"You will?" she inquired in surprise.

"Yes. I have an idea too." Jeff took the plastic mats out from the drawer where they covered a linen tablecloth with napkins to match. He took flatware out from the dish drain and set all of it out on their large kitchen table. He moved a vase of artificial flowers to make way for the saucer that held butter and took a loaf of bread down from the top of the refrigerator. He found ketchup in the refrigerator and set it beside the butter and the cardboard salt and pepper shakers.

"What is it?"

"Our anniversary is next week. How about if we ask Mom to take the kids and have an elegant dinner in the dining room just the two of us. I'll fix it for you."

Dinah laughed in delight. "And what will you fix, Mr. Instant Gourmet?" That was a reference to Jeff's lack of culinary skills. He did know how to put dishes in the microwave but, other than that, he spent little time in the kitchen.

"I'm going to surprise you," he said with a wink. Jeff knew that he'd broil steaks and bake potatoes and cook vegetables and heat rolls from the bakery downtown. He'd put out the real silverware and buy real flowers for the center of the table.

"You certainly will," she answered giggling.

"And what do you think I'll serve this fine meal on?" he asked teasingly.

"Ah, you want to use great-grandma's china, do you?" she asked.

"Why not?"

"Why not, indeed," Dinah answered with glee. "That will be a very happy anniversary -- for the china and great-grandma and me."

Flowers Aren't Enough

"So, you fixed us something special for tonight, did you?"

Katey considered the steaks she had marinating. She thought about what was in her refrigerator now. "I thought it would be fun to just chow down on hamburgers and french fries."

"Uh-huh."

"Did you want to go anywhere tonight?"

"No. We could just stay here and watch TV."

"Okay."

Quentin didn't quite know what to say. He knew something was wrong but he didn't know what. Obviously the evening was not going well so far. He got up and went into the kitchen after her, putting his arms around her waist as she stood over the stove.

"Mmmm," he said, "you feel so good." He nibbled at her ear.

"Quentin, I can't cook if you're bothering me in here." She shrugged him off and moved slightly to the left.

Quentin backed off and frowned. "Anything I can do to help in here?"

"You can get us both a beer." She had hoped he'd bring wine, maybe champagne.

"Here you go." He set it on the counter beside the stove.

"Thanks. Just go in the living room and relax. I'll be out with this in no time," Katey said. She purposefully overcooked the hamburgers, knowing he liked his nearly rare. She took the french fries out of the oven and put their supper on paper plates. Her mood was worsening by the minute and she tried to find the plastic forks and knives and spoons, but failed.

"Quentin," she said, as they sat down and began to eat, "I don't think you and I are really suited to each other. I mean, I think we're wrong for each other."

Quentin put down his hamburger and nearly choked on a piece. He swallowed and played with a french fry. "Why?"

"It's just a matter of taste."

"You mean you like your hamburgers well-done and I like mine rare?"

"No."

"Well, what then?"

"I just can't explain it. We're too different."

His shoulders sagged. "This isn't exactly the anniversary I had planned."

"Well, it might have been better if you'd taken me out somewhere, I suppose."

Quentin licked his upper lip and bit it.

"Can't you just unbend a little sometimes, do something on a spree?"

He pushed the paper plate back with force and some of the french fries fell onto the table. "If it's that important to you, let's go out now."

"No," Katey said. "It isn't just that."

"What else?"

Katey looked toward the center of the table. "It just isn't real. It isn't a real love affair. It isn't what I'm looking for."

Quentin felt like he might throw up. Instead, he stood up. "I'm going to leave now." He put his napkin on the table. "You're constant bickering and picking is making me sick."

She sniffed. "Well, go then."

"I will. I am."

Katey felt relieved when she heard the door slam shut. She threw the roses in the trash.

Over the next few months, she dated feverishly. Her attitude, when Quentin called, was cool. Finally, she agreed to see him again. They were sitting at an outdoor cafe, sipping on iced tea and watching passersby.

"So, what finally changed your mind?" he asked, leaning back in the wire chair and lighting a cigarette.

"Sort of a 'the grass is always greener' kind of thing," Katey tried to explain. She fiddled with the straw in her tea.

"The perfect mate wasn't out there after all?"

"No."

"Will you please tell me what really happened between us?"

"I did."

"You didn't tell it all."

Katey tried to remember what had bothered her so much that she'd thrown Quentin out on their anniversary. "I've forgotten."

"No, you haven't. We were about to have a happy celebration of the fifth month anniversary of our going out, when all of a sudden you went off. You didn't really even thank me for the flowers or the card."

"What card?"

"The card that said: Just as these flowers will last, so will our love for each other over the years."

It was Katey's turn to feel like she might throw up. "I didn't see any card," she said.

"Well, it was there if you bothered to look."

She gulped. "I'm really sorry."

"Yeah."

"You want to know the truth?"

"Of course."

"I don't like artificial flowers. They signify something that isn't real to me. If I'd seen your card though, I'd have understood what they meant coming from you."

Quentin leaned forward and covered her hand with his. "My love for you is as real as the silk of those flowers."

"I wish," Katey said, wondering what to do about the missing roses, "I'd read that card."