FICTION  ​     
"The clouds had separated just enough to let sunlight spill through.
She hit every green light on the way home."
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                              Photo by Weebly.com                                    

State of the Union
by Matt Ginsburg

“The very essence of romance is uncertainty.”
Oscar Wilde

“Are you staying at the same hotel as last time?” she asked, waiting for the red light to change. He had said they had plenty of time, but her knuckles stayed tight on the wheel.

“Yes,” he replied. “I’m not picky about hotel rooms.”

“Did you remember your umbrella? It’s supposed to rain tomorrow.”

“No. I didn’t think of it. Maybe it won’t rain up there.”

She glanced at him. He was texting, focusing on his thumbs. She twisted in her seat, leaned forward, and felt a sharp pain in her neck. She wanted to ask who he was texting, and if it was related to the job. They had met at Georgetown, during their second year of business school. After graduation, they traveled separately: she to Europe, he to Asia. Before they parted, she had asked him, “Will we get engaged when you come back?” and he had nodded.

That was six months ago. Now they were living together in her apartment, but they hadn’t spoken of it again. She was working at a job she liked in D.C. He had just accepted a job in New York, at a salary higher than hers.

At last the traffic surged forward. They moved along Constitution Avenue. On the right, the Washington Monument proudly pointed toward the hazy heavens. They stopped again, this time in front of the National Archives.
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“Remember that movie, National Treasure, where they stole the Declaration of Independence?” he asked, pointing toward the building. “Or was it the Constitution?”

“The Declaration of Independence,” she said, keeping her eyes forward. “Don’t you know the difference?”

“I do,” he said, yawning. “But I probably wasn’t paying attention.”
“Whatever happened to Nicolas Cage?” she asked.
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“I think he had a drinking problem,” he replied. “I know he ran through a lot of wives.”
1
They would reach the train station in a few minutes. She wondered whether to bring up the apartment again. She had told him what she wanted: something bigger than her studio. She didn’t want to cook and entertain in the bedroom anymore. If they were going to stay together, if she was going to transfer to New York, if she was going to marry this guy, she wanted more space. And they could afford it.

But he only ever talked about neighborhoods. He wanted to live downtown, in the Village or Soho. He liked the idea of a brownstone, maybe on the same street as a jazz club. Something close to the subway. An easy commute. When he did talk about the apartment, he sometimes mentioned a studio.

“Did they agree to cover the broker’s fee?” she asked.

“Yeah, I just had to ask. I’m meeting with some real estate dude in the morning. Tonight I’m getting dinner with Ross. Maybe we’ll go out after.”

“Really?” Her voice faltered. “Sounds like fun.”

Union Station appeared ahead, grand and symmetrical. The three majestic arches at its center were said to be modeled after structures in ancient Rome, the eternal city. They had arrived.

She turned into the drop-off zone and waited for the car in front to move so she could pull to the curb. They stared ahead in silence.

“How much time do you have?” she asked.

“Not much,” he said. “Maybe I should just get out here. Let’s stop. I’ll grab my bag.” He leaned back and stuffed the phone into his front pocket.

Her feet turned cold. She wanted to ask him—to clarify what had once been assumed—but it was almost too late. After the summer apart, and the months back home, she had never brought it up again. She thought he remembered, but he didn’t always act like it. Sometimes he did. Or did he?

He unbuckled his seat belt and opened the door. She put the car in park and pressed the button to open the trunk. She left the engine idling and stepped out to say goodbye.

They met behind the car. He pulled his bag from the trunk. She watched him.

Her pulse picked up. She hadn’t planned this moment, hadn’t rehearsed the question, but she couldn’t let him go without asking.

“Are you going to look for a studio . . . or a one-bedroom?” 
2
She studied his face. He squinted at something in the distance—a pigeon landing on a statue. Then his eyes met hers. They didn’t waver, there was no confusion. He knew exactly what she was asking.

“A one-bedroom,” he smiled, his eyes shimmering like when they had first met. “That’s the plan.”

She stepped into his arms, hoping to hold him longer than she could. She felt his phone vibrating. He ignored it.

“I love you, but I’ve got to go,” he whispered, and kissed her gently.

“I love you too,” she said, as he turned and began walking away.

“Can I tell my mom?” she called out.

He paused. “If you want to,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. Her heart thumped, her body tingled, and her eyes grew moist as she watched him disappear.

She got back into the car and pulled away. The clouds had separated just enough to let sunlight spill through. Monuments rose around her, radiating permanence. Ahead, the Capitol dome brightened the sky, sparkling like a diamond.

She hit every green light on the way home.
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​Matt Ginsburg received an MFA degree in Creative Writing with a concentration in playwriting at San Francisco State University. His literary work explores his interest in business, economics, and politics. His plays have been read or performed at numerous theaters in San Francisco. He has also had three short stories and three works of memoir published in previous editions of Vistas & Byways. He serves on the Editorial Board of our publication and writes the PREVIEW section of each issue. 
Other works in this issue:
Preview
​Nonfiction:  Released
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Vistas & Byways Review is the semiannual journal of creative writing and photography by members of the Osher Lifelong Learning Institute (OLLI) at San Francisco State University​.
Osher Lifelong Learning Institute at San Francisco State University (OLLI at SF State) provides communal and material support to theVistas & Byways  ​volunteer staff.
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