Her hand is small, but it grips yours tightly enough for you to feel each finger through two layers of gloves.
“You looked at her,” she says.
“What? No,” you begin, but all you feel is relief, because she didn’t guess. “I smiled and nodded at them,” you say. “Not to her. I was trying to be friendly.”
You are on Temple Square, surrounded by families and other couples, all come to see the Christmas lights just like the two of you. Sarah is too aware of this to make a scene, but her jaw is set and she looks only ahead.
“ ‘Friendly.’ ”
You’re so stupid, you say to yourself. You knew she would jump to conclusions! But you had to look. Even now you feel the pull, the magnetic desire to turn and try to find them behind you in the crowd.
“That wasn’t just ‘friendly.’ ”
I wonder if they’re together, you think. Of course they are, they were walking arm in arm.
“We’ve talked about this.”
Married or just dating? Didn’t get a chance to look for a ring.
“You know how I feel about you looking at other women like that. No matter how much cleavage they’re showing.”
Why do I care if they’re together? I don’t care. So they’re married. So what? She’s not nearly good-looking enough for him. No, I don’t care. They love each other. Just like I love Sarah.
Sarah pulls her hand away from yours. “Are you even listening to me?”
“Honey, I’m listening. I just don’t know what to say. I told you I wasn’t looking at her, and I wasn’t.”
“I saw your head turn,” she spits, and now a few heads are turning towards you.
“No,” you say, but yes. When they were passing, strangers like everyone else there, his eyes met yours, a half-smile on his lips. And suddenly your mouth opened and you wished him a Merry Christmas.
“Your head turned,” she repeats. “I thought your eyes would drop right out into her sweater.”
Merry Christmas, they mumbled back, startled, and his warm, brown eyes dropped yours as they passed. He didn’t glance back, you watched just to make sure. Then your eyes slipped across his cheek, his jaw, and he was gone.
“I didn’t,” you say, “I would never.”
If you see him again, will he smile? Will you feel that shock of connection? It’s early; they’re probably still here, still walking around somewhere on the Square. It is unbearable that you might never see him smile again.
“Let’s go home,” she says, and grabs your hand again. Her disgusted tone and the sharp tug on your arm pull you unpleasantly back to the here-and-now: to Sarah, angry and upset.
“Hon, you’re angry,” you say, “I didn’t realize how much my silly glance back there hurt you, and I’m sorry.”
She stops pulling. Her eyes are down. “It did hurt. I—sometimes I’m afraid you don’t look at me that way anymore.”
You realize you never even saw his . . . companion, or her cleavage.
You pull her close. “Sarah. I love you. I love you. You’re mine, and I’m yours.”
Did she notice the goofy way you were staring at her date? Did she say something to him about you, laughing a little? “I though his eyes would fall right out of his head.”
Sarah sniffles a little, and squeezes you through your coat.
And did he laugh, too?
“Should we finish the round?” you say. “You wanted to see the Nativity Scene, and I—I want you to have that.”
You’re so stupid, you say to yourself again. So stupid. But still your eyes look ahead, hoping to see him, to see his smile.
