7. Lola

Lola was sitting at the kitchen table with her hands wrapped around the cup of tea. The sun was setting quickly, and she was watching the shadows slink across the table like a prowling cat. It was that time of day where one contemplated turning on the lights. It was possible to see without them, but turning them on would renew the shininess of the entire room. It was mostly quiet, except for the hum of the refrigerator and the periodic whistle of a bird outside. Outside, she heard the car pull up and squeak to a stop. The door snapped shut and she listened to George's footsteps in the gravel outside. She heard them stop in the middle, then continue to the house. The screen door squeaked on its hinges and slammed behind him. He laid his briefcase on the bench next to the door and walked into the kitchen. "Whatcha doing?"
Lola blew across the top of her mug and looked at George. "Just having some tea," she said. "Want some?"
"No." He was visibly irritated, but trying not to start something. She had to give him that.
"How was Richmond?" she said, not really caring.
"Fine." He paused. She knew what was coming next. "I thought we decided against a horse."
"You did. You decided against a horse." She could feel the sharpness of the words as they pierced her tongue.
"Since when do you make decisions like that without me? A horse is a big decision, you know. We're supposed to do these things together.
"Why?" she shot back, "You're never here anyway. It's not like you'd ever have to do anything. This is my thing. Something that doesn't involve you. It's not yours. You're not paying for it." She was challenging him, baiting him. She could see the resistance living in his shoulders, but it was wearing thin in his face.
"You should have talked to me first, Lola." His voice was rising.
"Says who? I'm a grown woman. I can take care of myself." Her decibels met his.
"That's not the point! The point is that we could have saved the money!"
"For who?!"
The words that had leapt from Lola's throat hung in the air like thick smoke, expanding to the corners of the room. It pushed against both of their bodies while pulling their insides out. George caught the breath in his throat and held it against the words still polluting the kitchen. He quieted his eyes to push the echo out to the trees. He had to ask, but he knew. "How was the doctor?"
She caught her breath for a second and looked at him. He was concerned, but it was veiled by his agitation. She was afraid for a second. Afraid of what she had to tell him, afraid of what she had already done, and afraid of what the two would add up to. She lowered her eyes and stared at her tea. She could feel her hands beginning to shake. This was going to be harder than she had anticipated. She had practiced in her mind all week, and now it was slipping out of her like a burglar out the back door. She felt her eyes start to tear, and she concentrated her gaze on the mug to make them stop. She shook her head.

George sighed, and his shoulders sighed with him, slipping down into his chest. The walls seemed to sigh with them, like a deflating balloon. He went to the cupboard and pulled out a mug to make himself some tea. He dipped the bag in the water and sat down in the chair next to Lola. He wanted to touch her, but he couldn't even look at her. He stared at the calendar on the refrigerator, with its x's and o's and numbers and scribbles underneath the picture of a Hawaiian waterfall. He sneaked his eyes sideways at her; she was still staring at her hands. He stared at his own hands and considered the distance from his mug to hers. He ran through the movement from here to there in his mind, rehearsing it beforehand to avoid stumbling somewhere. He took a deep breath and settled his hand on her wrist. She didn't move for a second; he couldn't even sense her breathing.
She heaved towards the table with a choke that made his chest tighten. She pushed her tea away and he put his other hand on hers. Her choke was followed by a sob, and the kitchen suddenly filled with the humidity of her grief.
"Sorry." George was never eloquent under pressure.