We met a child today. He was wearing Martial Arts garb. His name is Parker. He is enrolled in a Karate class at the local Dance Studio. Parker is Five. His two front teeth protrude over his lower lip when he tells you, "I do Karate Kicks!" His mother smiles. She knows. She says, “Yes. He’s certainly got some moves.” Her name is Zara.
My name is Meg. I want to become friends with Zara. We talk. We fall in love.
We organize playdates and orchestrate “Mom’s Night Out.” We meet at a wine bar called “Wet Stone.” We talk about this and that and fall more deeply in love. So, we decide it is time for us to coordinate a dinner. Without children. Just us. And our Spouses.
Zara’s husband is a Banker. My husband is a Lawyer.
My husband cooks up a feast. We eat Asparagus Risotto—mushrooms, tomato, black truffle, parmesan. We drink San Joaquin Pinot Grigio.
Dinner conversation is lively, full of compliments, repartee, and innuendo. But the revelation that Zara’s husband is a defendant in a case that my husband litigates, and looses sleep over, is far too awkward, messy, complicated, detailed, and involved to write down in a Flash Fiction piece.
The only thing that matters is that Zara and I choose to remain close friends, even if our husbands are financial enemies.
“Hey, we’re neighbors—after all—and our kids adore one another.”
This is what Zara and I say when we embrace. And (just between you and me) our so called “embraces” have become quite a bit more frequent lately.
But if push comes to shove, and my husband's Life is at stake, I will ax Zara. I promise. I swear. I will.
