Onion Ring

Eric Bosse

Dolores dips her napkin into her water glass and dabs the wet corner at a spot of ketchup on her sweater. I watch her finger, the one where the platinum ring used to be. "I grind my teeth when you're eccentric," she says. "You know that." She smiles her way through a club sandwich with fries on the side. When she's done, she tucks her bra strap under her sweater and says, "I met someone." The little hairs on the back of her ringless finger, where no imprint remains in her skin, have grown dark. She says, "I'm so happy. We met in Italy." I sip from my water glass and place the glass back on its circle of condensation. Dolores tilts her head to the left. "He's great. It actually amazes us both, what we had to go through to find each other." I dip an onion ring in ketchup. I smear red loops around my white plate. "Wow," I say. "Uh-oh." Her eyes are full of whatever fills hazel eyes when they try to express an Emotionally Correct blend of love, compassion and resolute inaccessibility. "You upset?" I nudge the onion ring into my salad, poke at the Catalina dressing. "No, no," I say. She reaches across the table and puts her hand on my water glass. She says, "Are you crying?" I fold the onion ring in half. The breading cracks at the creases. The whole thing fits into my mouth. "Oh my God," she says with a smile, then a frown that makes her lips puffy. She whispers, "I didn't think you still felt that way." I lift my water glass to my mouth. Her hand retreats to her lap. The ice slides down to my nose. I hear teeth grinding, but it could be the baby in the next booth. "I don't know what to say," she tells me. "I guess you're going through what I went through eight months ago, a year ago." The waiter refills our water glasses, smiles at Dolores, takes her plate, and walks toward the kitchen. Dolores leans back in her booth bench. "You should find someone to talk to," she says. "Forgive yourself. You and I, we had very different . . ." She shuts her eyes. "We had wildly different marriage acumens." I take another onion ring, a small one, and dip it in ketchup. "I know what it's like," she says, nodding, "but I made it through." "You don't know," I say, rolling my eyes as if a fly were swirling around my head-a routine that once made her laugh, until she got sick of me. Dolores says, "Yes, I do know," through a clenched jaw.