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Approximation

Rochelle Cartier

    “What about that new guy you’re seeing? Why don’t you bring him with you for Easter dinner? Your sisters and I would love to meet him.”
    She struggled to open the bag of Cheerios, her arm movement slightly impaired by the phone wedged between her chin and shoulder. “Well, Ma, his parents don’t really approve of our relationship. I don’t think kidnapping him on such a big holiday would go over so well.”
    “I understand baby, maybe next time. But for the record, they’re crazy if they don’t love you.”
    By the time Natalie convinced her mother that she really was very busy and needed to end their conversation, her Cheerios were soggy. She always ate Cheerios before her Tuesday picnics with Sam; he rarely packed enough for two, and when he did it was something abominable. She detested the pretzels, pre-packaged with their artificial cheese dip, the tuna and crackers, the bruised apples. She would tell him one day, perhaps hint at how nice it would be to make a meal of champagne and Brie. For now she was content with sharing his company and, if she was lucky, his grape soda.
    Normally the crunching sound of the cereal filled her brain and distracted her senses, but today only a muffled echo emanated from her jaw and she was forced to momentarily contemplate her situation. She closed her eyes, allowing the rhythm of her chewing to coalesce with the pulsing capillaries in her lids. “Nonsense,” she whispered, crossing the small kitchen to set the empty bowl in the sink. She let go of the bowl a half inch too soon, the impact of ceramic on metal causing the leftover milk to erupt skyward. Natalie slid back instinctively, her heels grating against the linoleum. Ignoring the mess, she glanced at the microwave. It was time to meet Sam.

    He was wearing her favorite shirt, a plain polo, unadorned by any logo, almost as gray as his eyes. He saw her coming and waved, a smile stretching across his face as she approached the park bench, their park bench. His fair hair appeared illuminated, the sunlight dancing on each strand. Natalie had never seen anything more perfect in her life.
    She seated herself, sliding her palms down her hips and under her thighs, positioning the folds of her dress to make herself comfortable.
    “You’re late,” Sam commented, his gaze focused on the playground in the distance.
    “I know, my mother called again,” she crossed her right leg over her left.
    He extended the lunchbox silently and watched as she scrutinized the contents. PB&J, slightly damp. Sunflower seeds. Chocolate pudding. Dried apricots.
    “You know honey, I’m still kind of-”
    “Full from breakfast? That’s cool, I’m pretty hungry,” he retracted the lunchbox and delved into it with his left hand, reaching for Natalie’s knee with his right. “So, I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he paused between bites, puncturing the hole in his flavored water pouch with the attached straw. “There’s this thing next Friday, I’m giving a speech at the school. It would be really great if you could be there. Plus you can meet my parents, they’re flying in the night before.”
    “I’m not sure what my schedule looks like, but I’ll do my best.” She smiled with her lips; the rest of her face was still uncertain. She rested her hand on top of his, directing her attention towards the children on the playground. As she watched them construct elaborate sandcastles, she was briefly overcome by the desire to walk over and smash them.

    She arrived four minutes late. The auditorium was filled to capacity, but Natalie preferred it this way. She located the last of the empty folding chairs that had been assembled along the back wall. She scanned the stage and found Sam, managing to make eye contact with him through her dark sunglasses. Natalie was complacent to let them rest on her nose, privately pleased that her anonymity could be somewhat preserved.
    Wedged between two other attendees, she soon found herself conversing with the woman on her right. She was only a few years her senior, perhaps thirty, perhaps thirty five. “So, which one is yours?” the woman inquired. Natalie was disturbed by the woman’s smile, her poorly applied lipstick polluting her otherwise gentle appearance. Waxy pink smudges littered her teeth.
    “Oh, I’m not a parent. Just here to see a friend,” she replied, forcing herself not to stare at the woman.
    “Well my son is going to speak. That’s him up there, in the gray shirt,” the woman gushed. Natalie felt her organs twist and swell inside of her, barely managing an “Excuse me,” to the woman before making her way down the aisle and out the double doors. Before they closed behind her, the principal’s voice was audible over the din of the crowd. His words followed her along the tiled hallway and rebounded off the lockers, surrounding her: “Welcome to Phillips Middle School. We are proud to present our eighth grade graduates...”

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