3WW (Drink, Feeble, Predict): Duck Confit

The duck floats gracefully on the water. It flaps its silver-brown wings a few times and dips its dark green head into the murky lake.

I wait for her to arrive, the ring stashed in my back pocket. The sun lingers like the taste of bad wine. Maybe I shouldn’t do this tonight. It doesn’t feel right. We’ve been dating for eight years, and we’ve discussed marriage often. I thought tonight would be the best night. At dusk on the bench where we met. I was taking a break from a run, she was attempting to walk that damn dog she had. Fluffy? Fluffers? I can’t remember now. Has it just been too long? Or not long enough? I take a drink of the nauseating coffee that will keep me awake another couple hours.

The duck quacks a few times. I notice he’s alone. Don’t ducks usually travel together? He’s swimming in circles; I wonder if ducks get dizzy.

I can’t stand it when she’s late, which is often. She doesn’t call or text. But I know she has a tough job; she’s always on the phone and doesn’t want to be bothered by it after work. Speaking of which, she should be off work by now. I don’t think today’s a deployment day. She would have told me. At least I think she would have told me. It’s tough to predict her schedule; she’s always so busy. So damn busy.

The duck has stopped swimming in circles. Now he’s staring at me. He’s literally swimming in one place and staring. It reminds me of the guy who played one note continuously on the trombone while his right arm pumped the main slide vigorously. Except creepier.

The sun is about to set. I’d like to believe she’ll make a grand entrance at exactly the right moment, but I think that’s a pipe dream. Artificial light replace the feeble sunlight. Mosquitoes and wandering single men abound. The neighborhood isn’t as nice as it used to be. She’s not coming.

‘She’s not coming.’

I wonder if I’ve spoken aloud. But I can’t remember doing so. I look around but see nothing.

‘Yeah, I said it.’

‘Who the hell’s talking to me?’

‘It’s me, the duck.’

I turn to look at the duck, who’s still staring at me.

‘She’s with another guy. The missus has ‘em staked out. I wouldn’t waste that ring on someone like her. Just my two cents.’

The duck dips its head in the water again, flaps its wings, and takes off into the air.

I stare at the spot where the duck was, unable to grasp what happened. I hear steps along the sidewalk.

‘Hi honey, sorry I’m late. You ready for dinner?’

I stand, kiss her on the cheek, and walk with her arm in arm to the small French restaurant. We love their duck confit.