Gossip by Beth Gutcheon

mean that was my plan. I’d propose, we’d tell you at dinner, we’d have chiles rellenos and millions of margaritas . . .”
    â€œAnd?” This really wasn’t my business. And yet one wants to know.
    â€œYou know,” he announced aggressively, as if I were denying it, “Dinah isn’t getting any younger. Or thinner. She thinks she can do a lot better than me, she thinks there’s always something better around the corner. But I think she was bloody lucky to meet me. It’s not every man who wants to take on a fat woman with children.”
    I said something soothing. It was beginning to be hard to tell if he wanted to marry Dinah or kill her.
    â€œWhat did she say ?” he demanded. “I just want to know what words she used.”
    I thought about it, then said, “She seemed sad, and she said she hoped you’d be back.”
    â€œBack! That’s a laugh. Why would I come back?”
    â€œBecause you had fun together. Because you care for each other.”
    He stood up suddenly, as if he was going to blow up if he didn’t get moving. He put his hands on his hips, looked around the room without seeing it, and sat down again.
    â€œHow about because I love her? How about that?”
    He now seemed to be arguing for the other side.
    I said, “I know you did. I know you do. She’s very lovable.”
    â€œShe is! She’s bright, she’s funny, she’s always interesting. Always. We make a great team! She understands my work, I understand hers . . .” He seemed to realize that he was making Dinah’s points, not his own. “We had a great thing. Really great. I thought this is it, this is the rest of my life. But what was I to her? Some sort of hors d’oeuvre? Some sort of dessert? I wanted to be the main course!”
    The volume was rising again. I said I understood, and I did. Better than he could possibly know. But he roared on.
    â€œJust tell me, how does she explain turning down a . . . a . . . Me! Turning me down, because she’s too pigheaded and angry to let that poor schmuck Richard Wainwright off the hook.”
    I said, “What?” There we go again. I had heard him all right, but where did that come from?
    Finally he’d gotten a reaction he’d been trying for.
    â€œShe didn’t tell you that, did she? She didn’t tell you the reason. What did she tell you?”
    â€œShe mentioned your wanting children . . .”
    â€œChildren? Me? I don’t care if I have children.”
    I was bewildered.
    â€œShe said there was nothing wrong with going on the way we were. But there was for me. I didn’t want to be twenty years down the road, with nothing of my own, introducing her as ‘the woman I sleep with.’ But she’s more interested in fucking over Richard Wainwright than in being with me. She says that’s the deal breaker. Getting married.”
    I have to say, I was shocked. She really did care for Fred. They did have a great time together. She wasn’t getting any younger. And neither was I.
    Ten months later, he sought me out at work to introduce me to his fiancée, a small, smiling olive-skinned girl named Elena with curly dark hair and big yellowish cat’s eyes. We had coffee together, and she flattered me by finding the behind-the-scenes workings of the store exciting and glamorous. Together we double-teamed Fred into buying her a beautiful Thai silk suit to be married in. He sat in a spindly chair in the dressing room watching her try things on, and looked like a thoroughly happy man.
    T hings at work had grown gradually more uncomfortable in these years. Marylin undercut me with clients more than once, but when I went to the manager, he had no patience. You could practically see the word catfight forming in the thought bubble above his head. Dismissing me, he said, “I’m sure you girls can work it out.”
    I came