CHAPTER TWO:

There was of course still the issue of my future bride being okay with my new out-of-town gig, which certainly was no slam dunk. Karen and I were supposed to meet at seven that evening for a quiet dinner she'd planned at our favorite Italian restaurant, Il Vagabondos. We both loved the place. It has a lively atmosphere with real bocce ball pits and an accordion player bouncing from table to table. But oddly enough, we also found it a great place to get away and just talk. The tables there are far enough away from each other for a fairly decent level of privacy, and it seems like the ongoing activities are always happening somewhere in the background. I got to the restaurant early, figuring I could settle in and get comfortable for the presumed conversation ahead. To my surprise Karen was already seated when I arrived. A full forty-five minutes ahead of schedule.

"Karen?" I said, shouting across the room when I noticed her.

I think I startled her when I hollered out her name, and as I drew closer to the table she looked like she'd been crying; though with Karen it's not always easy to tell. She is so naturally pretty, but because she absolutely refuses to push herself over the line to beautiful by wearing makeup, there isn't the usual mess to give away her emotions. And of course there's the whole pride thing; something she has more than her fair share of.

"Mark? I didn't expect you for at least another half an hour," she said, covering something with a forced tone in her voice.

"Carl took me off the Hodges thing this afternoon, so there really wasn't any reason to hang around the office. I figured I'd get a glass of wine while I waited for you."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Should I be sorry?"

"I wasn't. It was a pig of a story, anyway. I don't think I could have dressed it up enough to take it to the dance."

"Well, then I'm happy for you."

"Yeah, me too. There's more to it, but we can get into that later. How was your day at work?"

"It was good. Things are good."

"You look troubled."

I slid into a chair at the table, and motioned for the waiter to stop by. When I looked back Karen's lip was trembling. She looked like she was ready to go.

"Alright," I said, grabbing her hand across the table. "Something is wrong. Tell me what happened today."

After a couple of sniffles, Karen dabbed a Kleenex at tears that were beginning to collect in the ocean blue eyes I had swam so deeply in the night we'd first met.

"Nothing happened today. It's not about today."

As is always the case the waiter found the worst possible time to jump in.

"How can I help you two love birds?" he asked in his most cheery voice.

"A glass of Merlot, please."

"And for the lady?"

Karen shook her head without looking up. For the first time the waiter realized something was amiss, and he made a pained, sympathetic expression appear across his face before stepping off lightly.

"This must be big," I said after the waiter had gone from earshot.

Karen shook her head again, then withdrew her hand from mine and off the table completely. I tried to be calm with her. I even thought about feigning a gentleness that is not really a part of my character. But as usual, I became frustrated far too soon.

"OK, look. Did someone die or what?" I snorted after a few minutes.

My lack of tact and compassion seemed to steel Karen for whatever was ahead.

"No. No one is dead. Someone is dying, however."

"Who?"

The sadness in her eyes was replaced by a touch of fire, and she looped the golden brown hair falling across her face back behind each ear.

"How about me? How about I'm dying inside. Every day just a little bit more of me is sacrificed for the sake of our relationship."

I don't know how women do it. How they're able to go from zero to sixty in a relationship conversation in a matter of milliseconds. Men - me, first and foremost I suppose - always seem to get thrown back in their seats by pure g-force when that happens. It's a serious disadvantage.

"I mean, my God, Mark. What are we doing here?"

This was bigger than big.

"Well, I thought we were getting married this summer," I said, still a little lost.

"Getting married? Why? Why are we getting married, Mark?"

I desperately wanted to leave. Inside my head I heard myself shout "check please", and imagined myself running for the relative safety of the mid-town Manhattan sidewalks. I'd rather have a woman hit me square in the face with a large piece of lumber than have her hurl emotional riddles at me like that.

"The reason most people do it. They love each other," I mumbled.

"Love has nothing to do with it, Mark."

At that moment my blood began to boil. Somewhere around the six-month milestone in our relationship, almost overnight the pressure to come out with that magic four-letter word had built to mountainous proportions. Everyday that went by, every day past the "I would think if you did love me you would certainly know by now" conversation, the pressure just kept getting turned up. It was the single most important and all consuming concept in our lives for quite awhile. Did I or didn't I? Once the burning question, now apparently an irrelevant afterthought.

"Waiter," I said, reaching for my wallet.

It was a brilliant response. Simple and clear in its message. The suddenly hyper-attentive waiter came right over.

"Yes my dears, how can I be of service?" he said with a feminine reassurance.

I wanted to punch him in the nose. It was the tone I should have been able to use in the circumstance, but I would never have been able to pull it off.

"Bring us the check," I said.

"You won't be dining with us?"

"We won't be dining."

"I understand. The glass of wine is on me, honey."

I could see my hands around the waiter's neck, wringing the life out of him for his sensitivity. I couldn't bring myself to look over at Karen, but I felt her glare.

"So that's it? Conversation over?" she asked.

"What the hell do you want from me Karen? Do you want to cancel the wedding?"

I knew it was unwise to jump so far ahead, but from my experiences with Karen, or any other woman who has occupied a place in my life for that matter, I also knew there was a train wreck coming I wasn't going to be able to stop.

"That's something that has crossed my mind, Mark. I was hoping we could talk through some of the things that are..."

"You know what, just shoot me. Please, put a gun to my head and just pull the damn trigger. We don't need to go through an inquisition over this. Be a big girl and tell me what you want to do."

Karen stood up and thrust her balled-up little hands on her slender hips, staring at me in disbelief for a few seconds. She was calmer than I thought she would be after such a splendid volley. Slowly she slid in her chair, put away her Kleenex, and took in a deep, cleansing breath.

"Fine. I'll call the caterers and get up with anyone we've sent deposits to. Maybe with the pressure off, we can finally have a real conversation about what's going on between us."

"Maybe so."

 I didn't know it at the time, but with that, Karen McDonough was gone from my life. We never did have that one, purging conversation to clear the air. We didn't really need to. We'd had it many times in pieces and parts over the few months leading up to Il Vagabondos. Enough so that I could have stayed there after she'd left that night and filled in the remaining discourse alone. And while sharing just that one final peek into our time together could give the impression my former fiancé was a bit of a shrew, the fact is that over the years I've turned many a good woman into a frustrated ball of disappointment and anger. The truth: Karen is the best thing that ever happened to me. Much more than I ever deserved. Which of course is the reason I could never have held on to her. She is a simple, passionate, devoted and a deeply caring human being. One of those folks that is willing to sacrifice anything and everything in the name of doing good. I can't say I was happy about what happened, but considering how her future husband stacked up against those core values, it was understandable.

And so it was that in one day, one solitary trip of the sun from east to west, I lost the woman I had planned to spend the rest of my life with, and an eighteen-year career in journalism began a painful slide straight into the crapper.