We're Not There Yet by Robert Warwick
We left late on account of the dog. It’s dying, it seems, already blind and incontinent. Vince did what he could to try to make the dog comfortable—a clean blanket to lie on, its barely-touched-lately bowls of food and water nearby in the tiled room we called the office because of the desk and the books. “Goodbye, baby,” he said, crouching over the old black Spaniel, stroking its warted nape.
“Daddies will be back soon,” I heard him whisper.
In the car, he complains about the traffic.
It’s a party we’re going to, a dinner party. “Should we phone ahead?” I ask, because of our lateness; this before cell phones, which required stopping at a gas station or a convenience store to use a pay phone.
“It’s already dark,” he says, which doesn’t really answer my question.
When we arrive we find we are not so very late, and not the last of the guests to arrive. We have a bottle of wine to give to our hosts, who take our coats. I see Vince lift his nose and I read his thought: Oh, God—not fish. These are old friends, our hosts, dear friends, but they are culinarily challenged; this will be a catered event, then.
One of the help, a tall, thin, dark haired young man, passes with a tray of what our hosts call “nibblies”, and takes our drink orders.
“I know him from somewhere, I think,” Vince says.
“Don’t we all,” one of our hosts’ friends groans, a stranger.
The help comes back with our drinks, looking as though he loathes every single one of us for very personal and individual reasons. I tell Vince what I’m thinking.
“Oh, you’re just projecting!”
Later, I see him follow that help into our hosts’ powder room.
Driving home, I press my luck and wonder aloud about the dog, wishing it well.
“My poor baby,” Vince says, and, because he’s drunk too much, he starts crying, crying hard, rocking forward and back in his seat, holding himself, sobbing. I pull over, crying myself, and we hold each other, our wet faces wedged into one another’s neck, and I smell the smell of the cater-waiter there, his cologne-- his spit, too, I imagine. I stop then, but Vince keeps it up all the way home. It pleases me and doesn’t.
We take the steps together, holding hands, and make our way through the quiet, quiet house to that room we call office, each of us hoping for the best and other things.
Robert Warwick lives in Austin, Texas. His work has appeared most recently in Bloom and Pank Magazine.
“Daddies will be back soon,” I heard him whisper.
In the car, he complains about the traffic.
It’s a party we’re going to, a dinner party. “Should we phone ahead?” I ask, because of our lateness; this before cell phones, which required stopping at a gas station or a convenience store to use a pay phone.
“It’s already dark,” he says, which doesn’t really answer my question.
When we arrive we find we are not so very late, and not the last of the guests to arrive. We have a bottle of wine to give to our hosts, who take our coats. I see Vince lift his nose and I read his thought: Oh, God—not fish. These are old friends, our hosts, dear friends, but they are culinarily challenged; this will be a catered event, then.
One of the help, a tall, thin, dark haired young man, passes with a tray of what our hosts call “nibblies”, and takes our drink orders.
“I know him from somewhere, I think,” Vince says.
“Don’t we all,” one of our hosts’ friends groans, a stranger.
The help comes back with our drinks, looking as though he loathes every single one of us for very personal and individual reasons. I tell Vince what I’m thinking.
“Oh, you’re just projecting!”
Later, I see him follow that help into our hosts’ powder room.
Driving home, I press my luck and wonder aloud about the dog, wishing it well.
“My poor baby,” Vince says, and, because he’s drunk too much, he starts crying, crying hard, rocking forward and back in his seat, holding himself, sobbing. I pull over, crying myself, and we hold each other, our wet faces wedged into one another’s neck, and I smell the smell of the cater-waiter there, his cologne-- his spit, too, I imagine. I stop then, but Vince keeps it up all the way home. It pleases me and doesn’t.
We take the steps together, holding hands, and make our way through the quiet, quiet house to that room we call office, each of us hoping for the best and other things.
Robert Warwick lives in Austin, Texas. His work has appeared most recently in Bloom and Pank Magazine.
