Lyrical Logic

Another portion from the project I’m working on. It feels a little close for comfort, which means my nervous system is doing it’s job: healing.

Saturday morning was usually a quiet affair for Cheryl Miller. She would sip her coffee in the sun room with the paper and just lounge. It was her necessary decompression after a long week at the office. Today, however, she was pacing the kitchen with energy that made her look like she was vibrating.

Will had invited Lydia out bowling, but he hadn’t responded to Cheryl’s text asking if she showed. Bob was sitting across the island, watching his wife try and expel the nervous energy from her body.

“He’ll call when he wakes up,” Bob said. “It’s okay.”

Cheryl turned to look at her husband. Usually, he was the grounding factor she needed. Today, he was simply irritating.

“It’s 9:30! He should be up!” she said looking at the clock on the microwave.

She pulled her phone out of her robe pocket and dialed. Will picked up on the third ring.

“Saturdays are sacred Mother,” he groaned. She had clearly woken him.

“And you didn’t respond to my text,” she snapped back. “If you would have, I wouldn’t be calling.”

Will sighed. “She came. She laughed. She had a good time. I told her you were making pot roast on Sunday.”

Cheryl stopped pacing, looking at Bob.

“What exactly did you say, William?” she asked, her voice was cooler now. It was dangerously close to her paralegal voice.

“I just told her that you were making a pot roast. That’s it,” Will said, he sounded a little more awake.

“Did you invite her? Or did you just say it?” Cheryl asked.

“I just said it. She knew it was an invitation,” Will said.

Cheryl shook her head. “Why are men so dense?” she muttered to herself.

“What was that?” Will asked.

Cheryl’s voice turned maternal again. “Nothing sweetie, go back to sleep. I’ll see you and Jonah Sunday.”

She hung up the phone and sighed, looking at it.

“Don’t call her Cher,” Bob said, reading her mind.

Cheryl looked at him. “She doesn’t know it was an invitation to dinner,” she said. “She’s not going to come.”

“She might,” Bob said, taking another sip of coffee. “She’s a smart girl. She knows it was an invitation.”

“No, she’s a woman who has been told she takes up space her whole life,” Cheryl said, her fingers already moving to start a new message thread with Lydia. “She needs an actual invite.”

“You’re smothering her,” Bob said as he stood.

“I’m not. I’m just sending a text,” Cheryl replied.

Will told me he tried, and failed, to invite you to dinner tomorrow. Just seeing if you’re coming, it will be the difference between blue napkins (for guests) and red (for family.)

She hit send. Then she started a second message.

We’re using red regardless, just wanted a head count. 😉

Cheryl put her phone on the island and waited. Hopefully Lydia wasn’t at the office. Hopefully she was home doing something she enjoyed.

~~~

Lydia was in her kitchen, scrubbing a sink she barely used. She had been over analyzing Will’s comment about the pot roast all morning.

It wasn’t an invitation, it was simply a statement. He was telling Jonah, Lydia thought. There is no way it was an invitation to family dinner.

Her phone pinged on the counter next to her, briefly pausing the Loretta Lynn song that had been playing. She took off her rubber gloves and looked at it. It was from Cheryl.

Her heart skipped a beat. Did she say something wrong? Or was this the I’m putting bowling on Fridays on your calendar text?

She opened it.

Will told me he tried, and failed, to invite you to dinner tomorrow. Just seeing if you’re coming, it will be the difference between blue napkins (for guests) and red (for family.)

Lydia stared at the message for a moment. But about thirty seconds later the second message came.

We’re using red regardless, just wanted a head count. 😉

It was an invitation. Lydia felt her chest warm. Without thinking, she texted a response.

I’d love to, and red is my favorite color.

She looked at Sonny, who was chasing a spring around the living area floor.

“I’m going to dinner tomorrow, bud,” she said. She looked at her phone again. “I was invited to dinner.”