Winter Affair by Doreen Owens Malek

“I’m only trying to get you to perk up and look elsewhere. You’re beautiful and intelligent, you don’t have to wait around for this ex-convict to remember you’re alive.”
    “Don’t call him that,” Leda said in a small voice. “It isn’t his fault he went to prison if he was sent there by mistake.”
    “All right,” Claire said, bending to plug the master cord into the socket under the tree. “But look at it this way. It’s probably a good thing that you haven’t heard from him. With the past against you, it would have been rough going, and he’s being smart. So should you.” She straightened and went to the wall next to the door, flicking the light switch. The tree burst into life with myriad multicolored stars.
    “Beautiful!” she said, clapping her hands.
    Leda climbed down to the floor. She went to the box of ornaments and opened one in silence.
    Claire bit her lip. “Have you thought about calling him?” she asked her friend.
    “I’ve thought about it,” Leda replied. “I haven’t done it. Like most people, I have no desire to look foolish. I’ve already kissed him in public and chased after him through a milling crowd at the theater. I think the next move is his.”
    “And if he doesn’t make it?”
    Leda hung a red glass bell on the tree. “Nothing happens, I guess.”
    “Nothing is happening right now.”
    “Oh, I disagree,” Leda said sarcastically. “I’m driving myself crazy. You can’t call that nothing.”
    Claire sighed. “What do you think about the audition tomorrow morning?” she asked brightly, trying to lighten the mood.
    Leda had a tryout for an aspirin commercial scheduled for 9:00 a.m.
    “I don’t know. The way I feel right now looking pained shouldn’t be too difficult, so maybe I’ll get it.”
    Claire handed her a striped candy cane and Leda hung it on a branch.
    “Cheer up,” Claire said. “You’ll feel better on the holiday, when you see all your family and everyone is together.”
    Leda nodded, thinking that it would take more than a turkey dinner to raise her spirits this time.
    * * * *  
    Reardon threw down his screwdriver in frustration and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. This repair job was not going well, and the cylinder was needed for a flight going out at six o’clock. He took a break and squinted down at his grease stained fingers, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket to wipe them off. A theater ticket stub, torn in half, fluttered to the floor as he did. He bent to pick it up, remembering the evening he had spent with Leda Bradshaw.
    He should not have gone to see her perform in the play. He especially shouldn’t have requested a seat in the front row, where she could spot him when the house lights came up. But he knew why he had done it. He wanted to be up close to her, where he could see every gesture she made, hear every nuance in her voice. And when she asked him to wait for her, he couldn’t refuse, though every sensible bone in his body screamed at him to get away from her. And now it was too late. Just as he feared, the few hours in her company had completed the circle of his obsession, and he could hardly think about anything else but their time together at the inn. He went over every word she’d said in his mind, and could recall her facial expressions as if she were sitting right beside him.
    With monumental self discipline he had managed not to contact her, but he was perpetually exhausted, as if the effort of refraining from doing what he most wanted to do was wearing him out. He got through each day—going to work and coming home, eating and trying to sleep, writing letters and making phone calls to get a hearing on his license—feeling only half alive. Life was where Leda was, and he wasn’t with her. But for once in his screwed up, miserable existence, he was going to be unselfish and think of someone else first. She was better off without him and he was determined to leave her alone.
    Reardon