I looked up at the clock on the wall and confirmed it was just nine-thirty, I had plenty of time before I needed to leave for my appointment. Each year on Valentine's Day I left work early for lunch, heading for my standing appointment. It was a lunch date I had at the same time each year. With the long walk from my office I usually got there a little late, but each year, regardless of how late I was, I did the same thing. After stopping by the florist, I'd pause by the same cafe' window, just out of her sight and just watch as she sat there.
She would sip her wine so calmly, so serene. One year it was Chablis, the next a Rose, last year it was Merlot, perhaps a Cabernet, I just remember the light red stain as she dabbed her lips with her napkin before setting it back onto her lap. She didn't wear lipstick, even in her older years she never really needed much makeup, a bit of eye shadow and not much else. Her hair was always slightly frazzled, as if she just stepped out of a swift breeze, but it never really detracted from her appearance. In the past few years the strands of gray replaced most of the dark brown, yet she still had a look about her that belied her true age. I remember wishing I had aged so gracefully.
I'd usually spend a good ten minutes or so just watching her though the window, in the same cafe', even the same table each Valentine's Day year after year. A small child holding his mother's hand might wander past and she'd follow them as they continued up the street, often craning her neck until they'd turn a corner or disappear though some door. Returning to her wine, she'd hold the glass just inches from her lips, lost in thought, just smiling. Then she'd take a sip, glance at her watch and then look back outside. She might continue to look back to her watch from time to time, but whenever I finally walked in, she was never mad about how late I was. Each year I was greeted by the same beaming smile and the light kiss on the cheek. I'd hand her a single red rose and then sit down.
After a quick toast to Valentine's Day, we always would eat light, usually something the restaurant could prepare quickly. Our conversation remained light hearted and jovial, though we both were a bit nervous with anticipation. We'd skip the dessert and when we were ready for the check she had a way of just nodding her head and they'd immediately know to bring the check. After a brief battle over who paid for the lunch, she'd brush her napkin from her lips one last time, take a peek at herself in her hand mirror and then gracefully stand. Looking back I noted that as we aged, the time we spent after lunch was not as urgent as in our younger years, but we still got excited about it, cherishing every moment.
Funny, each year as we checked into the nearby hotel, I'd sign in using my real name, signing in as Mr. and Mrs. Johnson. She'd always laugh as we walked to the elevator, enjoying our tiny conspiracy. By the time we reached out floor, our faces would be flush from giggling or, perhaps, in anticipation. Either way, we made sure we walked very calmly, properly to the room. I would then slide the key card in the slot and we'd step inside.
