Olives and Apple Blossoms
by Emily Cann
I am better off alone, Sally declares as she sets her barely-touched extra dry gin martini on the bar. I am far better off.
I know exactly what you mean, I say.
You do?
Of course.
You’ve ended things with Janis? she says. She touches my wrist and her lower lip droops in either surprise or solace.
No. I take another sip of wine. That’s not what I mean.
Sally has said on numerous occasions, It’s me, it’s me, it has to be me. At book club we surround her, we smother her to say it’s not you. Of course it’s not you. It is men. It has to be men. She says yes, yes it’s the men. I pick the wrong men. Someone inevitably says, They’re all the wrong men. Sometimes it is even me that says that.
But Mariah has confided in me—and more than once, I think—that sometimes she does wonder if it has something to do with Sally. We wonder about her. What she must be like when she is out with a man. It is true, she doesn’t have the most flattering haircut, or the best posture. Sometimes she’ll miss a joke, something so obvious that it makes her appear unintelligent. Could it be those things? Mariah and I wonder. But she is so genuine, we recall.
Perhaps she is too genuine, Mariah muses as we put away the cheese after book club.
That must be it, I say. But we never say so to Sally.
It is possible to do almost everything on your own now anyway, Sally says. She twists the base of her glass on the bar and the condensation marks conjoin to form a complete circle. I mean, what do I need a man to live with for?
I nod. I do not say that I would miss Janis. How easily he reaches things from the top cupboards. Things like that are unkind to say to Sally.
You could get a big dog instead, I say.
I’ve never liked dogs.
There’s a clatter from behind the bar as the bartender restocks shelves with clean glasses. Cats then.
Even worse.
I sip my wine. I am out of suggestions.
Why do I need any of it? Sally says. I am better off on my own. I am far better off.
Yes, I say. You are much better off.
A group of young women rush in from the cold. They brush snow from their wool coats. One picks up a menu from the hostess stand and sighs. The others huddle together and observe the décor, eyeing vintage-inspired chandeliers and industrial-style pendant lights. What’s wrong with it? One woman asks. Why can’t we just eat here?
Have you and Janis set a date yet? Sally picks at a broken nail.
Yes, I say, but I don’t say more. It is rude to talk about these kinds of things in front of her. We are the only two left who are still unmarried. Soon it will just be Sally.
But she raises her eyebrows expectantly at me—I have to continue.
May tenth. I tap my ring against my glass. Invitations will be out soon.
She pushes a rogue curl away from her eyes. The apple blossoms will be in bloom then, she says.
Yes, I say. Mom and I used to go down to the valley for the festival.
Of course, Sally says. Eyebrows crimp together.
We are quiet for a moment, remembering.
It’s getting close, Sally says. Are you nervous?
Nervous? I ask.
Yes, Sally says. Nervous.
One of the women by the door has broken off from the group. She is standing by the bathroom holding her phone to her ear with her shoulder. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other. Hello? She says. Hi. How late are you open?
I am worried about the DJ, I say. He’s Janis’s cousin.
Sally swirls her martini, olive caught in centrifugal rotation. It collapses back into the liquid, plop.
But are you nervous to be married?
No, I think. I am not nervous to be married. But this is not the kind of thing to say to Sally. Instead, I say, Oh, yes. I am very nervous.
This isn’t true but Sally looks relieved.
I’m relieved to hear you say that, Sally says. I was worried you weren’t taking it seriously.
Seriously? I say.
Yes, Sally says. I worried you were being flippant. Focused on the wrong things.
The wrong things? I say. The flowers and music, she means. I don’t say this to Sally.
Because we’re the only ones left, she says. I worried you might be, you know, rushing.
I start to wish now that I hadn’t ordered the Riesling. Why would I have chosen this when there was a familiar Pinot Grigio on the menu? But the name of the Riesling was something French, alluring. I wipe the sweet wine from my lips. Maybe I will like it more the more of it I drink.
Janis and I have been together for two years.
I just think it can’t hurt to consider. Sally bites the edge of her thumbnail, prying the broken piece away. Everything that’s about to change.
The woman on the phone returns to her group. She shakes her head and their shoulders slump. I knew we should have made reservations, one says. Another—the same woman as before—says, What’s wrong with here? Why can’t we eat here?
I do not want to tell Sally this is foolish. That would be rude. That is not the kind of thing to say to Sally, who so steadfastly believes the only way to get back at the men who have wronged her is to keep all men lonely. She punishes herself the same way.
The hostess returns to her stand. One of the women steps forward. Table for four. Almost apologetic.
I don’t mean to offend you, Sally says, even though I am not offended. I have not said anything. She pushes more hair off her face.
Sally is not ugly—but her hair is frizzy and her teeth are too small for her mouth. The braces she had in high school didn’t quite fix the gap in her bottom teeth. There is still space between to slide a toothpick through. I wonder if this is the first thing men see when they look at her.
I love Janis, I say. I think about my own teeth, how I can never get the whitening strips to adhere properly.
Sally plucks the olive from her glass and pops it in her mouth. A coating of brine clings to her lips. She reaches for my wrist and squeezes. Poor thing, it seems to say. What does any of that have to do with it?
I’m sorry, she says instead. I didn’t mean anything by it. I just want to be sure he’s giving you everything you need.
She pries the pit of the olive forward with her tongue, spits it into her not-quite-empty glass. It is an impolite thing to think—that perhaps this is one of the things about her that turns men off—but I do think it.
Everything? I say. I can’t tell if I am hiding my irritation well. I didn’t realize he was responsible for everything.
Sally frowns. I am not hiding my irritation well.
Hi, one of the women calls to the server across the room. Hi, excuse me, excuse me—can we get a pitcher of sangria for the table?
You know what I mean, Sally says.
I don’t know that I do.
Forget I said anything, Sally says. She lifts a hand to order another martini. The bartender slides a napkin in front of her like a bribe.
I sip my wine. It is sweetness, not alcohol, that burns.
Have you deleted your profiles yet? I ask.
I think so, Sally says.
You think so?
Well I have so many. I can hardly remember.
If you’ve forgotten, I say, you’ll never think to check them.
Yes, Sally says. I’ll never think to check them. It’s a relief. After wasting all that time.
The server delivers a plastic pitcher of red sangria to the booth in the corner. Cheers Alison, one of the women says. Congrats on your promotion!
I’m buying a new desk, Sally says, watching the women in the booth as they clink glasses.
A desk?
I’ve taken one of the bookshelves out of my apartment to make room for it. I’m making space for a studio.
Ah, I say.
I’ve been taking art classes, Sally says. I’ve signed up, I mean.
Art classes?
Painting, pottery. There is woodworking in the fall. Maybe if the others go well.
Will there be room for a table saw in your studio?
At the booth in the corner, the pitcher is already depleting. A torrent of giggles erupts and then is quelled by mutual hushing. Shut up, one woman says, hand over her mouth, hiding the red stains on her teeth.
I want to focus on myself, Sally says. Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays.
I down the last of my Riesling. Perhaps I’ll switch to sangria.
Saturdays, I say, is when book club meets.
Yes, Sally says. She dips two fingers in her drink to extract the olive. She puts it in her mouth and sucks the liquid from her fingers. I might miss a few weeks.
I think, she adds, the olive is my favourite part of this drink.
One of the women in the booth shimmies out and smooths her skirt. She strides over to the bar, leans one elbow on it. Hey, she says to the bartender. My friend thinks you’re cute—can she buy you a drink?
The bartender shakes their head, but grins. I get off at ten.
Scotch and soda? The woman winks.
The bartender raises one eyebrow and fills a glass with ice. On the house.
I gave Janis my number at an IKEA after I mistook him for staff. He hoisted three boxes into my car and said, You’re lucky it fits. At no point did he say, I’m sorry ma’am. I don’t work here.
Sally shakes her head at the woman walking back to her table.
Maybe it will work out, I say. I don’t mean to sound irritated.
I’m sorry, Sally says. I’m just so tired of being disappointed.
Yes. Of course. I take a deep breath and think of all of Sally’s bad luck. You have every right to be.
Do you remember Manesh? She says.
From high school? Yes. Manesh.
He was my first kiss.
Oh, I say. I didn’t know that.
He promised he would take my liquor if the cops showed up. My parents were very strict. I don’t know if you remember.
I remember, I say. My mother was always the one we confided in.
I think it was the last genuinely kind thing a man did for me, Sally says. My first and last.
The olive pit lingers like a stopper at the bottom of her glass.
What is it about you, Sally, I want to ask, that defies the kindness of strangers? Janis loaded the IKEA boxes into my car before he even knew my name. But this is not a kind thing to say.
What happened to Manesh?
He went away to school. I think he married someone from Toronto. Sally stares straight ahead. Everybody met someone, she says. Except for me.
You still could, I say.
Sally shakes her head. No, she says. I’m tired of being disappointed.
There must be a reason, I think. There must be something Sally is doing—not wrong, but different. Something the rest of us aren’t seeing. Something only men can see.
The bartender is still blushing, even though the woman has scooted back into her booth. Glasses clink together. Another bottle of wine is uncorked.
At a certain point, I say, don’t you have to wonder if what you’re looking for is not what’s out there?
Sally inhales sharply through her nose. Yes, she says. Yes I do wonder that.
I’m sure even Manesh—
Sally doesn’t let me finish. Yes, she says. I’m sure he would have.
We watch the bartender fill up more glasses with ice, invert various bottles over them. Sally taps her phone screen to light it. I should get going, she says.
Yes, I say. It’s getting late.
The women at the booth huddle closer together. One lifts her head up to gasp. No he didn’t, she says.
We can drive you home, I offer.
Sally shakes her head. I’ll take a cab.
It’s no trouble, I say.
That’s alright.
You’re practically on the way.
I’m fine, she says. Really.
Will you be at book club next weekend?
Sally dabs her lipstick with the napkin. Actually, she says, I’m going out of town. I need a weekend out of the city.
We wait on the curb for her cab, which will be here sooner than Janis. He is making homemade tortillas at home. On the phone he says, I need a minute to tidy up before leaving. That’s okay, I say. I don’t mind the waiting.
It’s cold, I say to Sally. Streetlights overhead catch the twinkle of snow.
I’m happy for you, Sally says. You know I’m so happy for you.
Of course, I say. Of course I know that, Sally.
The gaggle of girls pours out of the door. They readjust coats, do up buttons, tighten scarves. One presses into another for warmth. Is Luis on his way? She asks. He’s coming baby, the one with her phone out says.
But Junie, Sally says. Junie—
She gives me a look that is either fear or pity. Then the cab pulls in and we both give up on whatever we thought she was saying.
Snow clings to my eyelashes and I blink it away. The girls from the booth shuffle to their car as it pulls up. They do not shiver when the wind hits them. They are loud with delight. I watch Sally watching them and it occurs to me that we are glimpsing something gone. That we are not them anymore. We are the only two left. Soon it will just be Sally.
It was so good to see you, I say. I hold her tight and kiss her cheek. Snow collects in our hair and on our shoulders. The cold stings, the cab’s meter has already started ticking. I hold on for a moment longer. I don’t know how else to say what I mean.
ABOUT THE CREATOR
Emily Cann (she/her) has been writing her way back to Prince Edward Island ever since she left. Her fiction and poetry have appeared in various publications. Her poetry has been shortlisted for FreeFall’s and Room Magazine’s annual poetry prizes. Emily holds an MS in Narrative Medicine from Columbia University, an MA in English from the University of Guelph, and an MFA in Creative Writing from UBC. She is currently pursuing a PhD in English at Dalhousie. Website: emilyncann.com. @emilyncann on Instagram.