Lily
Stirring her latte and listening to the ice cubes clink against the glass, she watches him order steak from the sweet waitress. Some of what he does for the waitress, though not at all, he could do for her. For instance, he talks to her kindly, gently, and publicly. He asks her. He stops and thinks before he orders.
She could sense, from the ruthless way he cuts his steak, that today is a big day. Who cares, she mocks herself, who cares that she must hide eternally; all this never should have been; did she regret it; or did it not become thrilling that his wife is watching, that the Washington Post is watching? Like Sisyphus, she falls in love with her trying and failing, her being shooed like a fly.
The bloodily red curtains, velvet most of them, flowing and caressing those entangled in them, their lustful shadows swelling with the afternoon sun, George Washington in uniform looking down with amusement from the frame fixed on the wall. She likes to imagine that Peter is George, together they can celebrate the new republic. The gardener of the little garden on the other side of the window, cutting weeds that suck the life out of lilies, would be the proud witness of this historical moment.
