Fish Bones

Posted on July 6, 2011

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Fish bones. Tiny, translucent fish bones a third of the length of a toothpick refused to separate themselves from the grilled perch on my plate. After the second or third attempt to not swallow them, I abandoned the fish for the green beans and hoped that the bones wouldn’t perforate my intestines in my sleep.

“I would be devastated if you ever went away,” I said to my sister after she clarified a grammar rule for me. We were having dinner at C.J.’s Cafe, a tiny diner in downtown Lake Orion whose floor creaks, chairs rock and whose walls are drenched in the color of heavy whipping cream and wrapped in cinnamon red trim, brought to light by tons of tiny light-bulbs on the metal chandeliers. The food is always better than I remember it being, and too many significant moments have happened there for me not to love that place.

“I would lose my…”
“Editor?”
“Yes! Editor. I would lose my editor, my personal fashion adviser, beauty consultant, shopping buddy–”
“Deanna, I did leave. What are you talking about?”
“Oh, right. Well, I’m just saying. I’d be sad.”

Later than night, my husband and I were off to run the last couple of errands we had before leaving on vacation, which included grabbing a bite to eat. He chose Fuddruckers. Once we got inside I remembered that I ate less than four bites of fish and my stomach growled.

“Second dinner!”
“Really? I didn’t know I was going to have to spend money on you,” my husband teased.

The dining room only had a few people in it so we laughed and ate dinner. Me, feeling silly, and him with the eyes. The rain storm lost in his pupils, the mischief that never dies, the smile with temporarily contained laughter that I wake up every morning to see again.

First dinner with my best friend, second dinner with my lover. Pure bliss.

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