“Ma’am, your bottle of Chianti Straccali.” The waiter removed the cork and poured Sasha Bashton a glassful of the hypnotic, velvety red wine. It was one of her favorites, and her mouth watered in anticipation. She brought the wine up for a quick smell. Satisfied, she then swirled the wine and sipped it. She closed her eyes and smiled.
“Wonderful,” she said, opening her eyes. The waiter pressed his hands together, seemingly pleased.
“Is there anything else I can get you while you wait?”
Sasha eyed the toasted bread that she’d been using to soak up the balsamic vinegar and olive oil. She’d heard that Italians didn’t eat bread with olive oil or balsamic vinegar in Italy. But at the moment, she didn’t care. She was starving.
“No, thank you, not now.”
“Very well, then.” He left her quietly, and she was once again alone with her thoughts. She plucked her phone from her purse and noted the time. Hannah was now a half an hour late. She debated calling, but she steeled her jaw, wanting to give Hannah the benefit of the doubt.
Hannah had been running late a lot lately. For the last two years, actually. And each and every time, she had an excuse. Some were reasonable, but most were her simply being absentminded and apathetic. Sasha blamed most of it on her attitude with life. Hannah was ten years her senior, and she’d turned fifty with a very big chip on her shoulder. And four years before that, she’d battled breast cancer. Depression shrouded her, and instead of living life to the fullest, she began to act like she was ninety. She didn’t want to do anything, go anywhere. She was just merely existing.
The whole thing had been wearing on Sasha, and she swore, to her friends and to herself, that she’d give her one more chance…just one more chance. This time there’d better be no excuses. Being a no show to happy hours and other events was one thing. But their fifteenth anniversary? A whole other thing altogether.
Hannah had sworn the evening would be the greatest ever and she’d been the one to make the reservations at their favorite Italian restaurant. The one where they’d had their first date, first smile, first laugh, first witty, flirty banter. Sasha recalled that date with tears in her eyes. It had been such a magical evening. So where had all the magic gone? It seemed it had gone right out the door with Hannah. Like an Arizona monsoon wind blowing through their happy home, only to wrap Hannah up in its embrace and sweep her out the door, leaving nothing it its wake but a lonely old tumbleweed.
Sasha drank her wine, taking in a couple of hearty swallows. Her heart rate was beginning to speed up. Sweat beaded along the nape of her neck. Surely Hannah hadn’t forgotten. Not tonight. Oh God, she felt sick.
Around her, people laughed and glasses clanked. Waiters wove through tables. The heavy front door opened, and Sasha could no longer bear to look. She knew deep in her heart that Hannah would not be stepping through the door. She eyed her phone. Tears blurred her vision. It was pushing close to an hour now and no word.
She dialed Hannah and held the phone to her ear. Hannah answered on the third ring.
“Hey, babe.”
Sasha inhaled sharply. “Uh, hi.”
“What’s up? You coming home soon?” A teardrop fell onto the wooden table as Sasha struggled to breathe. Hannah had forgotten. She’d fucking forgotten their anniversary.
“Uh, no. No, Hannah, I’m not coming home. Not tonight. And probably not ever again.”
“What? Wait, why?”
“Happy anniversary.”