Romantic men...are they still out there?

    Well, I know of at least one, and he lives in Toronto.
 
    During a recent stay with my sister Jeannie and her family,  I decided to grab my nephew's bicycle and pedal around through all the newest neighborhoods,  get a little exercise,  check out my old stomping grounds.  A few hours later, pedaling back to my sister's place, huffing and puffing along, I couldn't miss it:  a table set for two on the side of the road.    With no one in sight.  My legs were cramping, so I stopped to rest and satisfy my curiosity.
                
    A sheet of plywood was balanced on a couple of five-gallon gas cans.  A pair of upside-down paint buckets served as stools.  A checkered red and white fabric of some sort served as a tablecloth.  On it were place settings for two and a mason jar filled to capacity with red and white roses.

    My nose told me that under the lid of a blackened pot, hot stew simmered.  In a side dish, a dozen or so baby carrots.  A candle in the center of the table, its flame whipped by the slipstream of each passing vehicle, wavered, and then recovered.

    It was a simple affair by most standards.  Yet it lacked animating characters:  two lovers leaning toward each other.

    What prompted this display?  It had an authenticity, like early Canada:  life rendered with what's at hand.  Its setting, however, suggested urban performance art.  But where were the actors? 
 
    While still pondering this question, a young man on a Harley rumbled out of an alley adjacent to the highway.  Cradled in his free arm was a bottle of wine and two silvery cups.  Swinging easily off his bike, he greeted me earnestly, but with a moment's hesitation...scanning the table for any alterations.
      
    I judged him to be in his early twenties.  Smiling my prettiest smile, I told him the stew smelled good and asked, “Is this my lucky day?”

    Over the intermittent whine of traffic and with little prompting, he told me how Susan, his wife, had left him earlier that day, stomping off in a huff and speeding away in their pickup.  They were building a house nearby, a mutual endeavor.  Angry words, though, had been exchanged over what he now admitted was a trifle.  Susan was expected back, and he wanted to catch her on neutral ground and impress her with his domestic qualities.

    The eccentric setting didn't seem to faze him.  Indeed, the risky nature of it seemed to ennoble him.  As he polished the cups with the tail of his shirt, his eyes scanned the lanes of oncoming traffic.  I saw that his hands were rough, scraped and cut.  Sawdust clung to his jeans.  He smelled of paint and turpentine. 

    Just then a semi pulling a double-trailer blew past with such force I thought the candle would go out.  We both turned to watch as the flame flickered to near extinction, then stiffened and regained its strength.
 
    I don't know if Susan ever made it back to his table that evening.  I pedaled off leaving the guy fussing with his flowers and watching traffic in the fading sunlight.

    Even now, though, months later, I still wonder about Susan and whether or not she returned.  Did she embrace her husband's apology?  Did she put aside her misgivings as he had in risking a showy display of his affection?

    I like to think she did.  I see them on the buckets, toasting her return, leaning toward each other...the candle still burning.