The Last Toothpick

He ate alone. He sat at the round table, facing the corner window.  That’s what he wanted, to look through the cypress into the darkness. The area above his nose and between his eyes scrunched together in little ridges.  He shook his head in disbelief; how could he deserve an A-minus grade in his complex variables class?  A massive disappointment.

Boechter counted everything.  When he was two years old his mother showed him how numbers began with one, and from there the integers could be matched one for one with anything, anything in the world,  to determine the total.  The excitement never left him, so that at 19 he still found pleasure in determining the quantity of everything he saw.

A small segment of beach reflected light from the restaurant perched on the rocks above.  Without consciously thinking about it, he analyzed the shape and size of the spit of sand, estimated the average depth and size of each particle and filed away the number (273,148,765,439 tiny grains).  He knew the space in his brain where his counting results were stored remained finite, but he had developed ways to organize each count so there was no danger of reaching the limit anytime soon.

The waiter came and began artfully arranging his smoked salmon and salad. Boechter sat back in the burgundy leather armchair and panned around the nearly empty dining room.  He paused, focusing on a girl eating at an isolated table.  For an instant he wondered what it was that gripped his attention.  Then unconsciously he began to total the strands of dark auburn shoulder length hair that swept around and dipped toward sparkling dark eyes.  It encircled her classic features and danced lightly against the neck of her blue sweater.  She smiled fleetingly and then turned away.

Throughout the meal, an uneasiness hung over him--something about  the dark eyebrows and long lashes didn't add up.

After the meal he sipped at the remains of a glass of zinfandel, mindlessly watching waves crash against the rocks below until the pesky bit of food caught between his teeth became unbearable.  In the lobby he reached for the last toothpick that lay in a silver tray on the counter. His hand brushed against a delicate hand that reached from the opposite direction.

"Oh," he said, "There's only one, you take it."

The auburn haired girl drew her hand back and smiled with the same mysticism  that had wreaked such havoc with his earlier count.  "No, you go ahead."

"That's okay, you take it.  Such a disappointment that an otherwise first class restaurant can't manage toothpicks."

"Tell you what, there are two sides," the sparkle played in her eyes, her smile broadened, "we could share."

They walked out together and stood talking beneath the awning while waiting for an unexpected evening shower to pass.  Conversation drifted  from weather to the college they both attended--she a freshman and he a junior although near the same age.

"I saw your picture in the paper last week," she said, "Quite distinguishing to have the math department recognize you like that.  I'm Demi" she held out her hand.

"Is that short for something?"

"My birth name, Demetria, but everyone calls me  Demi.  It's more informal , may I call you Beck?

"Unh . . . well ah, sure.  So you're an art major?  What'll you do when you graduate?"

"Save the world, of course, won't you?"

"I hadn't thought much about it."

When her cab didn't come, he gave her a ride back to her sorority.  The relationship flourished through the completion of his PhD when she took the lead and they began a marriage that would prosper through the years.  He was the one always grounded in stability as an analyst for DuPont, and she ascended through the realm of fine arts while taking on every cause to save the world from environmental and political disaster.

For fifty years Beck provided for every need, and Demi opened the colors of the world  for him.  Side by side each complemented  the other. He only wished that he could do more to express his gratitude for the exhilaration she had brought into his life.  Her only disappointment was that they could not have children to inherit what they shared.

He had long ago stopped counting everything.  HIs  world was in balance until the day he rushed her to the emergency room.  He had to count the minutes until he was allowed into the intensive care unit.

She tried to raise up, only to manage the fleeting smile that had enchanted him so long ago.  "Funny thing, I guess they've decided I need an operation."

"You'll be fine," he said, "You must, you're my everything, my world."

Her eyes lit up with a hint of the old sparkle.  "Hold my hand."

He remembered that first brush of her delicate hand as he would this last.  Like ghosts the orderlies in white came for her in crepe soled shoes.

After the funeral Beck became Boechter again. Leaving the church he gripped his felt hat against the tug of the wind and pulled thick wool coat lapels together sheltering his time worn skin against the sting of the early winter sleet, counting the steps back to the empty house.  Climbing the tile steps to the door he managed a squinting glance across the stone ledge.  In that instant he thought he saw a hint of pewter blue between gray clouds racing across the sky.

The wind whistled eerily past the opening as he twisted through the oak door into the emptiness and silence.  He found his way in the dark and sank into a leather chair shaped to the way he sat over many years.  A blue chintz armchair with a similar indentation sat to his right on the other side of an octagonal  end table.  Biting against his lower lip he leaned toward the table to reach the last toothpick.