The Last Good Conversation

by Laura Longhine

It was November, and the wind cut through her thick wool coat as if it were paper. Katherine shivered and, for warmth, leaned into Marshall as they walked, his arm around her shoulders in an old, accustomed gesture of protectiveness. Once they’d turned the corner an eerie quiet descended – the kind one sometimes stumbled into in Manhattan, and which had always made Katherine vaguely uneasy. They were surrounded by sedate old brownstones, the quiet of lights on behind shaded windows and no one around. Their shoes clicked on the empty sidewalk, and Marshall cleared his throat, dryly; he didn’t know what to do with silences.

"We’ll have to make that place a standby," he said, a little too loudly. "For once I agree with Zagat’s." Marshall prided himself on his willingness to disagree with Zagat’s. the bible of the Upper West Side’s restaurant-going population.

"It was delicious," she agreed. The truth was, though, she’d found Grammercy Tavern a little cold. Two years of living with Marshall had accustomed her to elaborate dinners in expensive restaurants. But somehow tonight it had all struck her as strange. Everything felt too big – the busy, high-ceilinged dining room, the gigantic white plates, the red-wine goblets that were so deep she felt sure she could never drink from them without spilling.

Marshall had ordered an expensive Chilean wine and engaged the sommelier in a discussion about the best wine shops on the Upper West Side. After appetizers and bread and bitter salads and towering pyramids of meat and

vegetables, Katherine had felt overfull and slightly sick. She had sipped a cup of black coffee and tried to keep steady, watching Marshall devour a plump lemon tart with ginger gelato and blueberry confit.

"So," he said now, in the refreshing coldness of the street. "Have you given any thought to Friday?" Katherine almost smiled. She’d been wondering when it would come. He’d avoided mentioning it all through dinner, showing, she thought, a heroic restraint. It was almost touching; he was trying to make it nice for her. They hadn’t been out in weeks, after all. Marshall was a second-year analyst at Merrill Lynch, which didn’t leave him much leisure time. Before she could answer he added, "You know, we really should be there. John and Rachel are good friends."

"Your friends," she said. "John is your friend. Rachel and I have nothing in common."

"It’s not as if she’ll be the only woman there, for Chrissake. Tom and Louise are going to be there, and Rachel’s brother and his wife, what’s her name, Madeline."

They turned the corner onto Columbus, and people again. Marshall stepped away from her to hail a cab.

"Wait," she said, putting a hand on his arm. "Why don’t we walk home?" The idea of getting shut up in yet another cab seemed suddenly absolutely intolerable. "We never walk anymore," she added.

He looked at her as if she had just suggested flying to Mars. "Katherine," he said, patiently, "it’s freezing out."

"It’s not really that far. We can walk off dinner."

Marshall shrugged. "Fine," he said. He stepped back onto the sidewalk and tucked her inside his arm again, then started walking briskly south. "Anyway," he said, "I don’t know why you have to be so difficult. Rachel’s great."

Katherine thought of all the things she could say to this, and said nothing. She brought one hand out of her coat pocket and touched her nose, as if trying to see if it were still there. He glanced at her sharply.

"What are you doing? Do you need a tissue?"

"No," she said. She stuck her bare hand back into her pocket, absently, and started toying with the silver claddagh ring on her fourth finger, rubbing her thumb against the dull surface.

"So we don’t have to decide right now," he said. "Just think it over, will you? Just consider it. We can talk about something else."

In their senior year at Columbia, after they’d first started getting serious, Marshall had given her the ring. You wore it with the heart facing out, he told her, if you were single, and facing in if you weren’t. Since then she’d worn the ring every day, and glancing down at that heart pointed in towards her had always made her smile. It had always made her feel safe.

Marshall was telling some story about what an outrageous asshole his boss was, and Katherine sighed. She didn’t want to listen anymore; she was tired of these conversations. Was this the way things always were? She tried to remember the last good conversation they’d had. She tried to remember the last time they’d been really happy.

"Marshall, when’s the last time you were really happy?"

"What?"

Katherine stopped walking. "I mean it. When’s the last time you were really, truly happy?"

He looked at her, confused, then smiled that tentative, lopsided smile that used to make her feel she was floating. "I’m happy right now," he said. "I’m always happy with you."

"We were just arguing. How can you say you’re happy when we were just arguing?"

"Sweetheart, everybody gets into arguments. It’s no big thing."

Katherine didn’t say anything.

"What’s the matter with you tonight, anyway? Is it the dinner party thing? Because if it’s really bothering you that much, you know, we don’t have to go." He looked at her intently, searching for a reaction, but she was looking across the street. She was watching a crowd emerge from Lincoln Center, watching them break off into twos and threes and step into cabs. "If you really don’t want to go, fine," Marshall went on. "We won’t go, it’s as simple as that. We’ll just stay home on Friday night, all right, Kat?"

"It’s not the dinner party." Katherine spoke with effort. "I’ll go to the damn dinner party, if it means that much to you."

"No," he said. "I don’t want that – I mean, it’s no good if you’re going to be sulky about it, if you’re not going to have a good time."

"I’ll have a fine time. I’ll talk to Rachel’s brother’s wife…"

"Madeline."

"Yes, Madeline. I’ve never met her."

Marshall eyed her warily. "Really," he said, "It’s okay if we don’t go. Honestly, are you sure you’re all right with this?"

"I’m fine with it. I mean, this is our life, right? What would happen to us if we started turning down dinner party invitations like this? What on earth would we do?"

"We don’t have to do anything, I told you, we can just stay home Friday night if you want. But if it’s all the same to you…"

"We’ll go," she said.

Marshall’s face relaxed. "If you’re sure," he said. He leaned forward to kiss the top of her forehead. "You know I just want you to be happy. I just want us both to be happy. You know that, right Kat?"

"I know," she said.

He gave her shoulder a little squeeze. "Come on," he said. "Let’s go home."

Laura Longhine is a freelance writer and a student at the Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism. Born in Toronto, Canada, she has lived in California, New Jersey, Boston, Italy, England, and New York. She is 24.