Tim Ljunggren

"Mrs. Kormack! How wonderful to see you again!" said the owner as soon as I walked into the place. "I'm assuming that Mrs. Saunders will be joining you?"

It's become a ritual for us. For nearly three years, we've met for lunch at Tatters, a tony little bistro just off of Vernon Avenue-a place that has a cozy atmosphere, dark wood paneling, and a baby grand piano. We command our own little domain there every second Thursday of the month, come rain or shine.

I arrived first, of course. Michelle is always late. Always. You can set your diamond-studded watch by it. She makes her entrance exactly eleven minutes after the appointed time. Today was no different.

Me, I'm always on time. Always. In fact, I'll arrive thirty minutes early, just to be sure. Arriving early is my forte, a practice instilled into me by my mother. Besides, it gives me the time to collect my thoughts and be alone with my visions.

At exactly eleven minutes past twelve, Michelle strolled in. She's a tall woman who looks perfect. Not beautiful, but perfect. Me, I have to work at it. To be perfect, that is. With Michelle, it seems to come naturally. And she still turns heads. Both men's and women's.

Tatters is a place where the high and mighty come to lunch ("where the elite come to meet, greet, eat, and posture" as Michelle is fond of saying). Bankers. Lawyers. My Episcopal priest. And they all notice Michelle. She expects no less.

Me, I never turn heads. Oh, maybe sometimes I do. But not in Tatters. You have to be ethereal to get noticed in there. Michelle is both ethereal and perfect. Me, I'm just…me.

Michelle and I have known each other for over four years. I won't go into the details of how we met, but let's just say that we shared a common interest (a frothy little beast named Robert). Since then, we've been the best of friends. And we always meet for lunch the second Thursday of each month at Tatters. Always.

"Hey, Suzy-Q!" Michelle said as she slid into our booth.

"Hey, yourself," I said. "You're late."

This is part of our ritual. She always calls me "Suzy-Q" and I always remind her that she's late. She always comes up with the same excuse. Always.

"The traffic was dreadful. You know how it is this time of day."

Yes, yes. I know how it is this time of day.

"Did you order a drink?" Michelle asked me, already knowing the answer.

"No. I've been waiting for you."

As if on cue, Theresa walked over and we gave her our drink order. Michelle always orders a Manhattan. I always order a double Chivas on the rocks. Always.

And so it began. For the next ninety minutes--over more Manhattans and more Chivas, over steak tartare and fresh, steamed asparagus--we talked about our day. Our week. Our month. We talked about our therapy sessions and the unrelenting suffocation that we both continue to feel. We talked about our husbands and the deep chasm that continues to exist between them and us. We talked about our medications and their various names: Paxil, Prozac, Stephen, Carlos--each month they seem to be different. Or, maybe they're always the same. It's hard to tell. It's always so hard to tell.

Always.

TATTERS

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