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Under the Knife
by
Michael Dellert

She turned the knife over in her hand.

"Do you think he'll come?"

He watched her over the porcelain rim of his coffee cup. She sat at the white formica table, the oversized menu open before her, covering the silverware and paper placemats, turning the knife over in her hand.

He shrugged, finished a sip of the coffee. "Maybe. Maybe not." He took a hit from his cigarette. "I'll be damned if I ever know what's going through Josh's head."

She nodded, dropped her face to read the menu, tapping her fingers against the table. She wore pale blue jeans over legs crossed beneath the tabletop, and a blue chemise man's buttondown. Her brownblonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail, held in place by a white linen bow. Long, delicate fingers pushed her wire rimmed glasses up to the bridge of her nose.

He tapped the ash from his cigarette into the square glass tray and looked around. It was a busy night. Crowds of young people squeezed into red, vinylupholstered booths, smoking cigarettes with fashionable disdain. The white light of the lamps beneath their stained glass, fruitbowl shades glared off the tabletops and gold flecked linoleum. Waitresses in black and white paced desperately table to table to kitchen in a wild succession of orders. The portly, balding night manager leaned against the dessert case, chatting amiably with a shaggy haired customer at the long, narrow counter.

He tapped the cigarette again and looked back at her as he enjoyed another drag. She was staring out the window to her right, watching the parking lot anxiously. He admired the curve of her ear and the sweep of her neck, the vee of throat where the shirt was two buttons undone.

"Jane, relax. Either he'll be here or he won't." He pushed smoke from his lungs toward the ceiling.

She looked at him through her glasses. Her eyes were blue. He'd never noticed that before. "I know. I just "

"Relax, Jane," he told her. "He'll be here."

"When? He was supposed to be here twenty minutes ago."

"He'll be here, Jane."

"This is why I dumped the bastard."

She shook her head and looked back out the window. The knife flashed in the lights. The rain was falling hard, dripping from the black bark of cold, naked trees, gathering in puddles on the macadam. Headlights flashed by in the dark, and traffic lights bounced, red, green, and yellow, from the wet street. It reminded him of Christmas. Aunt Sharon wouldn't be at the family feast, he guessed, now that Frank had left. He wondered if their kids would be there, or Frank's mistress . . .

"Can I get your order?"

He started slightly, turned to Jane with a gesture. "Yes, can I have the spaghetti?"

"Sure, hon. Meatballs?"

"No, thanks."

The waitress scribbled, looked at him.

"Mozzarella sticks? Thanks."

The waitress took the menus and left.

"What're you thinking about, Nick?"

He looked into her eyes. "Nothing."

"Come on. Tell me. Please."

He took a drag from the cigarette, looked out at the parking lot.

"I was thinking about Christmas. My aunt and uncle broke up. I was wondering if my cousins would be at Christmas dinner."

"O."

"It's funny, really. Couple weeks ago, I went to the Jets' season opener, against the Bills. My dad and granddad have season tickets. So I get there, and it's me and grandpa and my uncle, and my uncle, he's with this woman, Kathleen. One of his clients, he said, but we all knew better. We all knew he was screwing around on Sharon. And god, it was weird. Like some secret guy society. The Donnelly men, sticking by their own, even against the wife of one of their own. Really strange. . ."

He shook his head, stubbed the cigarette out in the tray. "He's here."

She twisted her head to see what he could see. Josh, tall, hard, long blonde hair, leather jacket, jeans, white sneakers, trotting up the stairs through the rain to the diner door.

Jane looked back at him.

"Do you want me to stay?" he asked.

"I don't know. God, I'm scared, Nick."

"I understand. But he's got a right to know."

She clutched a napkin in her other hand. The knife clattered against the table.

"Do you want me to stay?"

"Yes . . . Yeah, I want you to stay."

Josh strutted up to the table with a smile, slid into the booth on Jane's side, looking at her, hand extended to Nick. He had had a few. "Hey, what's up, people?"

Nick shook the hand. "Not too much, Josh. What's up with you?"

"Same old, same old," he said.

Nick looked at Jane. She was staring at the placemat. Josh looked at her, then at Nick. Nick looked away. Where the hell was the waitress? "What's going on here, folks? Did I interrupt something?" Nick shook his head, started to speak. Jane ran over him. "Josh, I'm pregnant." Nick looked away, at the clock on the wall. Three o'clock. Why did it always seem to be three o'clock?

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