"Not For You" by James W. Miller

END

6

An unfamiliar woman waves at him from across the park. She sidesits on the ground with her baby. The child is lying prone on a downy blanket, soft as baking flour, in the prickly grass, arching its back and wobbling its new head. She wears an A-line dress with a green hem and a red body, spotted with upturned black teardrop shapes, because it is summer, and she is a fun summer watermelon.

He is sitting on a bench, watching kids play. He doesn’t recognize her, but she seems to know him, so he waves back. She looks at him strangely then. A woman just behind him emerges and calls back to her, and he realizes the wave was not for him. He was just in the middle of someone else’s thing. He was “It” in their game of keepaway.

5

He stands over the trash can looking at a hunter green Father’s Day card that says “Reel good dad,” with a picture of a fishing pole. He accidentally smirks but then suppresses it. He is not a dad, so the card is not for him, so he throws it away.

4

Flowers arrive for her, white roses and lilies elbowing each other for space in the over-packed vase. Green spears of Bells of Ireland protrude from the phalanx. The card is not addressed to both of them, only to her. He grimaces. Where are his flowers? But then he isn’t particularly fond of flowers. She is, so it’s nice that they were sent for her by a concerned friend.

3

He is in the store returning gifts. Matching brown baseball gloves, one hand-sized and one a miniature. The little one is the size of a baby’s hand, too small for real use, only a novelty to go on a white dresser next to a crib.

“How adorable!” says the red-vested Target clerk, awakening from her programmed regimen. “Are these yours?”

He hesitates and then tells her they were for a friend, but he got them something else instead.

2

He is told to stay in the waiting room. The appointment is not for him. His wife is escorted off by a nurse who smiles flatly to mask her hurry. His wife does not return her smile, but looks at the floor as she passes. The doctor’s office smells like someone spilled mouthwash a while ago and didn’t clean it up well. There is a humming fish tank with one yellow fish. The humming is a merciful alternative to silence. The fish is a merciful alternative to making eye contact. The visitors sit in chairs that are too close together, so they try to stagger themselves apart like the black squares on a checkerboard.

He reads the news on his phone.

His wife emerges later, walking too fast towards him, and falls into his embrace. She shakes quietly in his arms and covers her face with her hand. By osmosis, he comes to understand.

He has never heard of these feelings, nor been notified that they would be out there waiting for him. He doesn't have words for it, this thing that has been thrust upon him, into him.

1

He is not invited to the baby shower. She and her girlfriends are going to get together, just them. He’s happy for her, though. They only have one car, so he drops her off at the friend’s house. As he drives away, he does something that he has been doing lately, something that only he knows about. It’s only for him to know. He turns on his music stream and chooses Can’t Help Falling In Love. Elvis sings them out loud in his warm, silky baritone. He doesn’t sing, but he sings the words in his heart and smiles at what is in store for him.

BEGINNING

James W. Miller is a professor and writer in the Los Angeles area. He has previously published in Adelaide Literary Magazine.