Maria Crawford is a journalist, columnist, poet, and blogger turned award-winning author. Since 2014, she has been crafting dark, thrilling, gritty novels that aim to challenge the status quo of romance. Outside of writing, Crawford enjoys creating amateur book trailers, learning the lyrics to as many songs as possible, and volunteering nightly with stray animals around her city of Dallas, Texas.
This story was contributed by Maria 

I felt a singular, growing bead of sweat, as the heat wafted toward my skin.

It lazily trailed along the corner of my right brow, threatening to spill down my face. I lifted my arm, trying to force its absorption into the fabric of my shirt. The shirt needed to be washed soon anyway.

Bubbling away in the skillet before me were all of the components of Evelyn's favorite meal. Just a few hours earlier, I had braved the stressful madness of the nearest supermarket. There, I had selected the freshest looking ingredients that were required to pull it all together. Once back at home, I could actually begin to appreciate the melding aromas of sugar snap peas, julienned carrots, sliced bell pepper, and minced garlic.

I had never actually cooked with toasted sesame oil before, but the chicken seemed to be coming along nicely, too. She would've been pleased. At once, I lamented the fact that I had never really cooked much for her before. The endless scurrying of daily life had robbed me of a lot of time. While standing over the stove then, trying to emulate the way she would've made this sesame chicken with rice, I gained a brand new appreciation for Evelyn.

Not that I had ever lacked appreciation for her before, but still...

Dinner alone often required a lot of forethought and imagination. Determination, even. And my wife was the epitome of a determined woman. I'd always adored her for it.

Unperturbed by my generally nervous nature, she had been the one to ask me out for our first date, in 1975. It felt impossibly long ago, and yet just like yesterday, all the same. We got hot dogs and went roller skating. I proceeded to fall flat on my butt three times that night, leaving invisible bruises for the morning. The cadence of her uncontrollable laughter made the falls not hurt as much.

Evelyn, my darling. She was the most benevolent person I'd ever known, and she was incapable of ignoring the suffering of those around her. As a natural response, she loved animals.

We had welcomed many homeless pets into our home over the years—the last surviving of which, was the orange tabby cat who was currently rubbing on my leg and begging for dinner. Not her own dinner, mind you—which I'd already supplied for her—but the dinner I was making for Evelyn and myself.

The feline had a fluffy tail that was disproportionately short in relation to the rest of her, and sad-shaped eyes to contrast her perpetually peppy personality. As she stared up at me—and at the old, slotted spatula in my hand—she let out a pathetic meow.

I sighed, smiling.

"Not now, Cheez-It," I said to the fluffy creature who was licking her lips in anticipation of chicken. "I'm doing something for Mom."

As if she understood exactly what I meant, the cat slowly retreated to the living room, finding her favorite sleeping spot—the indented place on the old sofa where Evelyn liked to sit. After a few belly licks, Cheez-It was back to snoring, leaving me to my tasks.

Where were we? Ah, yes, Evelyn loved animals. She also adored children—the many dozens she had taught, as an English teacher at Howell High, and especially the two we had made on our own.

Leo and Lily were both away, studying computer science and music theory at their respective universities. Don't let their common birthday, or the alliteration of their first names, fool you. Twins couldn't have possibly behaved any differently than these two kids did. When they lived at home, Leo and Lily did little but argue.

The current lack of constant sibling bickering, however, left the humble, old house feeling even more empty these days. I never thought I would say it, but I missed hearing them fight in the upstairs hallway. Still, they were good kids. I was proud of them for working so hard in school. I was proud of Evelyn and myself, too, for saving as much money as we had over the years, for the further education of our children.

In this small town, teachers and gasoline station managers didn't always have much money to spare, you see. When we settled down here, I kept trying to apply to work for the bank, down in the city, but things didn't always work out how we expected them to. As such, lavish vacations abroad and expensive vehicles weren't feasible for our family, but our house was always warm and our kids' tummies were always full.

Evelyn and I just wanted to give our kids easier lives than the ones that we had—as should've been the goal of every decent parent, I reasoned. We would've done anything for the two of them... and for each other.

Leo—who was born four minutes before Lily, and liked to remind her of it—was a dedicated worker, and approached everything in a practical, patient manner. In a lot of ways, he took after me. Lily, much like her mother, was a fiery, artistic dreamer who allowed her ambitions to guide her actions.

My wife's love of classical music had, no doubt, influenced Lily's similar love for instrumentation. Our daughter was particularly adept at playing violin and piano. While conversing with one another, we often listened to Chopin, Bach, and Beethoven during family dinners. When my mind would sometimes wander away, briefly, in those conversations, Evelyn would compare my aloofness to the deafness of the latter named composer. Instead of "Danny," she'd often call me "Ludwig."

"Did you catch that, Ludwig?"

Aloof as I may have been, I always caught the important details. I wasn't one of those husbands who consistently forgot birthdays and anniversaries. Not to toot my own horn, but I remembered holidays and dates quite well. Today, for instance, was February 14th. And it was my intention to make it as special as I could for my wife, with the little that I still had.

Evelyn, after all, deserved nothing less.

When the chicken was finished cooking, I killed the heat and covered the pan, to keep everything nice and warm. Up the stairs I went, to quickly freshen up before dinner. Once the sweat was rinsed away—replaced with deodorant and cologne—I found myself reaching for a red, collared dress shirt.

It was kind of silly, all things considered, but there was a nervousness to my fingers as I buttoned up the shirt—covering the nasty, vertical, faded scar along my chest.

In the shared closet before me, all of Evelyn's clothes remained hanging in an elegant sort of way, taking up the bulk of the allocated space. There were coats of varying colors and lengths. There were dresses in patterns that were so "vintage" (as Lily would say) that they would soon be rounding the corner to becoming fashionable again. There, in the closet, too, was Evelyn's extensive collection of footwear. She didn't own much jewelry, but my wife always had an appreciation for beautiful shoes. It was her single guilty pleasure.

There were conservative pairs that she had mostly reserved for work, and high heels that had once stopped my heart dead in my chest. This strappy, gold pair, for instance—Evelyn had worn these to the theatre on our tenth anniversary. We saw—you guessed it—Cats. And these scuffed up sneakers with mismatched laces? She'd wear them every time we walked the trails of the local park by evening—which we liked to do a few times a week, especially after I'd healed from open heart surgery. In many ways, Evelyn had spent her life healing me. She was always more concerned about my health than she was about her own.

I allowed myself one more glance around the closet before retreating.

Attached to each pair of shoes was a memory—a vision in my mind, of her. As much as it maimed me to recall the old times, I had to force myself to remember them. And this was one way to do it.

I used the edge of the mattress to lace up these shiny, black Oxfords. They were ten years old, but with a little bit of wax polish, they looked as good as new.

Leo would have told me that there was no point. I might as well have gone barefoot in my own house. But there was always a rhyme and a reason for presenting ourselves in certain ways, I'd learned. My work boots were not a one-size-fits-all solution.

There were "shoes for camping," and "shoes for champagne," Evelyn used to say. The ones secured onto my feet now, were definitely for the latter.

After combing and geling the little bit of hair that remained on my head—deciding not to put on a tie after all, because I could never get it quite as straight as she could—I went back downstairs.

Since Cheez-It believed herself to be a human, and therefore rarely respected human boundaries, I thought it best to scrub down the kitchen table again. And, from a wobbly drawer, I pulled an old table cloth.

The red fabric fell nicely across the rectangular surface, as I did my best to smooth its creases. I couldn't help but to consider that the wood of this table had innumerable scratches in its grains, from forks of many meals past.

A scratch here, a laugh there.
A spill then, a memory now.

On top of the colorful cloth, first, went the dinnerware set for two. Then, I meticulously arranged our meals onto the white plates, careful to wipe away any sauce from the edges. In the center of it all, I placed—and promptly lit—two tall, yellow candles.

With the ceiling lights dimmed, a soft glow from the flames reflected off the walls of the dining area. The ambience felt almost complete with Beethoven's ninth playing, in the far corner of the room. The record player, from which the classical music emanated, had been a wedding gift.

I used the landline phone to call Leo and ask how to use The YouTube on my phone again. After Leo explained it a few more times, in a few different ways, I was able to find an instructional video for the proper placement of silverware. Forks to the left of the plate, I was reminded. I wouldn't admit it to our kids, who basically lived on these devices, but smartphones really did come in handy sometimes.

To be fair, it wasn't as if people my age were averse to technological advancements; we just felt comfort in familiarity.

Maybe it was best to disturb the familiar sometimes, I thought, while blowing small particles of dust away from the foil-wrapped lid of the green glass bottle. A popping sound echoed all around, as I poured two servings of the cold, gold, fizzing liquid.

"What was that noise?" my son asked. "Are you alright?"

I had almost forgotten that he was still on the line.

"I'm just getting something ready," I said.

"Getting what ready?" Leo asked.

"Dinner for your mom and me," I replied.

"Dad..."

I glanced at my wristwatch. Just about seven o'clock. I could almost hear the clicking of her high heels along the wooden floor, waiting to meet me.

"Sorry to cut this short, kiddo," I said. "We'll talk later. Be good, okay?"

"Dad," Leo pleaded.

"Be good," I repeated. "Love you, son."

I hung up.

With the landline phone back on the wall, and my silenced cell phone in my pocket, I went to the sofa to retrieve something plush. (No, not the cat.)

In Evelyn's chair, directly across from mine, I neatly placed the red pillow. It was soft, vibrant, and forgiving—just like her.

And with this, the Valentine's Day date was almost complete.

From the mantle, I found the final item. The last, missing piece. What I most needed to make the evening absolutely perfect.

I used the clean cuff of my dress shirt to erase the fingerprint smudges from the glass. Then, I placed the framed photograph of my late wife, Evelyn, upon the pillow at the table.

I fixed her chair for her, scooting her closer toward the fully prepared settings. I hoped she would appreciate them. When she was ideally situated, I took my own seat.

There she was, across from me again. Frozen in time. Beautiful eyes glowing. Hair pinned back, with soft curls. Red lips upturned in a smile, for the rest of eternity.

Over the years, I had changed a considerable amount, but Evelyn always stayed the same. Myself, rather old and tired. Her, always lovely and glowing.

Still, she smiled at me, never judging me, like some people would.

I smiled back at her, ignoring the ringing phone on the wall, and reached for the glass in front of me. In a toast to my one and only, I held my flute up into the air. The champagne still bubbled away softly.

"All these years later, and you're still the love of my life." I spoke quietly, in honesty and in reverence. "Happy Valentine's Day, sweetheart. I made your favorite. Let's dig in."

***************


Maria Crawford is a journalist, columnist, poet, and blogger turned award-winning author. Since 2014, she has been crafting dark, thrilling, gritty novels that aim to challenge the status quo of romance. Outside of writing, Crawford enjoys creating amateur book trailers, learning the lyrics to as many songs as possible, and volunteering nightly with stray animals around her city of Dallas, Texas. Read more from Maria here