Page 90 of David's Love

Gnawing interest replaces her casual curiosity.

“You know about Anna?”

Anna.

Her name rings like a bell in the middle of winter. A bit sad. A bit muffled.

“I don’t know much about her. I just put two and two together.”

I can see in her eyes how much she’d love to question me about this. How do I know about Anna? Where did I get this idea that it was always about her?

Anna must be more than a crying bell. She must be a deeply buried secret.

She had been his secret for so long. And he’s already said that no one knows about her except me.

And this woman, Sylvia Briggs, Eleanor’s neighbor.

He must’ve thought about the people who were actually in his life. Not the ones from his past.

David and his secrets. And me, being the nosy critter that I am.

“I found some information… online,” I say reluctantly.

I stop awkwardly as her expression shifts, and I don’t know how to read it.

It’s a weird mix of despondency and unwillingness to continue, so it comes as no surprise to see her check the time.

A fake smile clings to her lips when she returns her attention to me.

“I’m so sorry. I wish I could continue our conversation, but I have a yoga class soon and need to get ready. I hope you don’t mind that we have to wrap it up.”

“Oh. Of course. I don’t mind,” I say. “I need to go, anyway.”

At once, I push out of my seat, almost knocking over my chair.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “And thank you for the coffee. And the information.”

The cadence in my voice gives away my irritation. No matter how much I want to act cool like I’m not affected, I truly am.

I knew this story had significance. But I didn’t expect it to be that big. Now more than ever, I wish I had known what had happened to that woman.

I almost ask Sylvia, but I change my mind and look for my way out as I can’t wait to leave. Her stare alerts me my behavior hasn’t gone unnoticed.

Like a parrot, I thank her again for the treat.

“Wait,” she says as I’m about to bolt out. “I’ll pack some cookies for you.”

This has the feel of a peace offering. It also seems like she wants to make me stay a little longer as she ponders something else.

She turns her back to me, reaches inside a drawer, and pulls out a ziplock bag––a little smaller than the one on the table––with the remnants of a life that has vanished into the existential sunset.

She slides four cookies into the bag and closes it before swiveling to me.

Her eyes glint with mixed feelings, so whatever she has pondered stays a secret.

“Okay,” I say. “Thank you,” I add, gesturing with the hand holding the bag.

I give her a flimsy smile and turn around to make a beeline for the door.

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