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Darla was having a lovely day.
She’d gone out for lunch to her favourite tea place. She’d sat by the window overlooking the small garden and had tea, sandwiches and dainty little pastries brought to her. She had enjoyed the quiet ambience of the place and taken her time. Then she’d walked the gardens slowly, taking the time she never used to get to examine each plant. To sit on the bench under the big tree, enjoy the shade, the birds singing and the gentle peace of it all.
After that, she’d visited a little Italian place for dinner and been looked after by the manager who thought she was “a sweet old thing,” and was quite handsome himself. She’d taken the opportunity to flirt; see what her womanly wiles could get her these days. It turns out they were still quite useful. Her food had been half off, and she was promised free food if she returned one day. Darla was looking forward to it.
But now it was time for what she was truly excited for. A concert in the hall by a world-renowned pianist. Her tickets had been bought three months ago, as soon as they went online. The lovely man at the library had needed to help her with them, but he did such a good job and got her a very good set near the front. She paid a pretty penny for them too, but it was worth it.
She sat now, on a small chair tucked in a corner, nursing a gin and tonic with something citrusy thrown in there that she couldn’t quite remember. Whatever it was, it was quite nice.
The doors weren’t due to open for quite a while, so Darla was doing something she quite enjoyed doing: people-watching.
There were the usual suspects. The well-dressed young women and their scruffy, unpleasant-looking husbands. The older couples, who both seem to be enjoying the atmosphere. The small group of children, dressed well and obviously excited. There were those who seemed to take this as a matter of proving their refinement. Always well-dressed, and always quick to scoff at those around them. And there was of course, someone already a little too drunk.
The most interesting couple were off in the corner together. A taller man was leaning heavily against a wall, a cane clutched firmly in one hand. He was dressed like the husbands dragged along. Jeans and a shirt, unkempt facial hair, generally unpleasant demeanour. Next to him was a nice young man. Well dressed in a proper suit that brightened his face, a lovely sweater under his jacket. He seemed relaxed, a smile never too far from his face.
There was an obvious affection between the two men, despite the taller man's generally unpleasant face. It amused her to know that it seems even queer relationships have the same dynamics.
Her Henry, he never enjoyed coming with her to the theatre, or the opera or even musical performances. He thought they were boring. Would much rather be seated at home watching a sporting match. But he attended everyone with her, and he always dressed appropriately. Even if he only did so under her urging.
It seemed these two were similar. The excited, properly mannered and dressed and dressed person, with one who would rather be anywhere else in the world.
It left a special kind of melancholy in her to see it. To know that sometimes some men can’t even dredge enough caring for their partner to respect their enjoyment. She hopes the nice young man is at least happy with his partner.
She misses her Henry every day. Congestive heart failure they said. His age and his work catching up to him. Nothing more specific than that.
Darla hopes she can live a good many more years. She has a lot of life left in her and hopes to see many more performances in her time. There’s one called The Colour Purple coming up at the end of the year that she’s looking quite forward to seeing.
The nice young man leans towards his partner and says something, a soft concern on his face. His partner shifts, grimacing, but merely shakes his head. Not once does he turn to look his partner in the eye. Instead, his gaze seems to be fixed on the floor.
They make an odd pair. While Darla isn’t up with the queer community at her age, she wouldn’t have thought gay men would look like these two. The grumpy one blends in seamlessly with every other disgruntled heterosexual husband, and the young man wouldn’t look amiss in a church. Neither of them wears anything that screams homosexual to her. Maybe that’s only stereotypes talking though.
But not once did she consider that they may only be friends. The young man leans into the taller one, looking over at him with such a soft expression. He leans his hand on the other man's arm with such gentleness. And despite his gruff expression, the taller man curls his body inwards towards his younger partner, as if knowing he’ll be caught.
It’s quite romantic in a gentle way. A way that speaks of years, of history. As if they’ve grown together. Fallen apart together and pieced each other back together piece by piece.
Though maybe that’s just the gin and tonic talking.
Darla looks away, realising she’s been looking at the two men together for quite some time. A light blush rises in her cheeks and makes a point to not turn back towards them. They’re very sweet, but she’s reading a little bit too much into their relationship. If Henry could see her, he would laugh and call her an old romantic, but then press a kiss to her cheek and grab her hand. He did always like to see her smile.
By the time she’s gotten up for her second gin and tonic, the doors have opened.
Darla makes her way in, drink in hand. The nice young man in the aisle escorts her to her seat.
It’s a good seat, close. And in front of her are the two men from outside. The gruff one and the nice one.
They speak to each other in hushed tones. The younger man leans in speaking into the ear of the older one, who gives short responses in return. Grunts, nods, shakes of the head. Communicating in single syllables.
The gruff man is clearly uncomfortable. His shoulders sit up by his ears and he holds himself stiffly. Even from behind she can see that.
“House,” the younger man says loud enough for her to hear this time. “If you’re in pain, we can go. We can try another night.”
“I’m always in pain,” the gruff man replies.
Darla feels a little bad hearing that. She hadn’t considered that his clear discomfort may have been something other than the setting. Maybe it has to do with why he uses a cane. Perhaps the standing and waiting was difficult for him.
This must be a well-worn conversation between the two, because the younger man gives no reply.
The lights dim as the usual reminders are given and the pianist is introduced.
Darla focuses back on the stage, doing her best to ignore the two in front of her.
The performance is spectacular.
The music fills the room. It practically infuses itself into the very air. She smiles, she sheds a tear, she feels renewed. It’s a marvellous experience and she does everything she can to soak it all up, as the music is the secret to living a good many more years.
Despite her internal insistence that she ignores the pair in front of her, she can't help but notice the way the gruff man relaxes gradually as the performance goes on. His attention is fixed on the pianist and she can't help but notice the slight sway, the twitching of his fingers lying on his crossed leg. Next to him, the partner, the young man, he seems almost bored by the pianist. His eyes wander around the room, his head turns at the most unexpected moments and his attention drifts. At one point, he seems to ignore the room around him and focus all his attention on watching his partner. It’s almost as if the music holds little attention for him.
At one point, she almost thought he fell asleep, his head drooping towards his partner's shoulder until it straightens in an almost panicked movement.
Darla ponders on it as she moves towards the aisle. It’s almost as if the young man was the one being dragged along to a performance he doesn’t really want to attend, while the gruff, unkempt partner is the one who wants to be there. It’s a surprise. It’s different; unusual.
All her experience people-watching at shows has told her it should be the other way around, but the evidence was right there in front of her.
She hears very faintly, the young man remark to his partner, “You’re going to be up half the night trying to play some of these pieces aren’t you?”
The partner's reply is too low for her to hear, but she smiles all the same. It’s sweet.
If she had been paying more attention to herself, and less to the two men, she may have noticed the way her heart was pounding and she was sweating, just a little bit. But she was distracted, and it was easy to brush it off as nothing.
It’s not so easy to brush off on the stairs, as she starts to feel faint and like her knees can’t hold her weight any longer. The world swims in front of her, and if not for the pair of arms under her armpits, she may have fallen down the stairs as her knees give out.
She sees the face of the nice young man hover above her, a frown marring his lovely features. She reaches up, or at least tries to, and through the soup of her mind tells him not to worry about little old her.
As the world falls away, she hears the gruff man say, “You couldn’t have collapsed on someone else's husband could you?”
When Darla awakens, she finds herself in a surprisingly comfortable bed, surrounded by the beeping of machines. There’s the heavy scent of disinfectant in the air, leading her to think she’s probably in a hospital.
She feels a bit silly.
Opening her eyes, Darla’s vision swims for a moment before it settles on the nice young man from the theatre in front of her.
He’s looking down at her a gentle smile on his face.
“Hi Mrs Henderson, you’re at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital,” the young man says.
He has a nice voice. Calming. Soothing. It feels like a cool towel on a hot day.
“Do you remember what happened to you?” he asks.
Darla looks around the room. Sitting in a chair off to the side is the grumpy man, his cane held firmly in his hand. He looks displeased to be here.
“I was at the theatre,” she says, her voice coming out a little rougher than usual. “There was a renowned pianist performing. You two sat in front of me. As I was leaving, I started to feel all dizzy. You,” she looks over at the gruff man, “asked me why I couldn’t have collapsed on somebody else’s husband.”
The nice young man smiles again, a little wider this time, a little more genuinely, especially as he looks over at his— husband, it seems. Maybe they went to Canada.
“You fainted,” the nice young man says. “You’re were very dehydrated, but we’ve got you on an IV now, and you should be back to normal soon. As long as there are no complications, you should be discharged in the morning.”
“Thank you…” she draws out the end of the word, waiting.
“Dr Wilson and over there is Dr House,” he answers. “We both work here at the hospital. Got you special treatment.”
Dr. Wilson gives her a roguish smile, that has Darla’s poor heart flipping over a couple of times. The monitor above her head registers the difference. She sees Dr House over in the corner smirk.
“Next time you go to the theatre, maybe switch the G&Ts for water at some point,” Dr House remarks.
“I’ll do just that,” she says, giving the man a small smile.
“Is there anyone you’d like for us to call, Mrs Henderson?” Dr Wilson asks.
“Oh, no don’t worry yourself over me. My children live a few states away and my husband passed earlier in the year. I’ll be just fine.”
“Do you have any friends we could call for you in the morning? We don’t like people to be alone when they leave here.
“I’m sure my friend Ginny would be able to join me for a nice cup of tea in the morning if it would settle your worries.”
She gives Dr Wilson the number and he scribbles it in her chart, promising that the nurses in the morning will give Ginny a call for her. The two men depart afterwards, Dr Wilson wishing her a good sleep.
Despite the feinting, she had a lovely day. Perhaps one of the nicest since her Henry left her. And Dr Wilson and Dr House were quite lovely, even if one of them makes an effort to appear otherwise. They came all the way out here just to make sure she was okay, and being seen at their own hospital.
She’ll have to buy them some flowers as a thank you.