The Conversation

Short Story by Buku Sarkar

Two old friends meet for dinner in Brooklyn, but beneath polite conversation lies unspoken tensions about choices, sacrifice, and drifting apart.

By Buku Sarkar — My Dead Flowers

Anita sat at the table in the corner, the very same table as the last time when she had come with Mark. That was six months ago. It was their fifth anniversary, and they had dipped into their savings and gone all out. They had even splurged on a babysitter.

It was light outside, the evening brightened by the white of snow. A car rolled by, a sign of life, that drew attention to the emptiness of the streets. Behind her, she heard the clatter of plates and cutlery, the low rumble of conversation. It seemed to her that the entire neighbourhood must be here, gathered in merriment, warming themselves with wine and stew.

A waiter came up to ask her again if she wanted anything else, another glass of wine perhaps, and she said no, she was fine, her friend would arrive any moment. In between, she worried she might not recognize Anjali; so much had happened since they’d last met.

Finally, she saw the shadow behind the door—the exterior door, constructed to proof against the winter. She knew just from the size and shape and movement of the shadow exactly who it was.

“Hi darling,” Anjali said. “I’m sorry I’m late.” Her nose was red. So were her cheeks. On her head, she wore a fluffy hat. A hat made of soft, white fur that fell over her eyebrows and doubled the width of her face.

“Hi,” Anita said. She attempted to get up but sat back down. She watched, instead, as Anjali took off her coat and hung it on the peg, where it draped the wall like a tailored curtain.

Anjali shook snow off the hat and came to the table. She leaned to one side to give Anita a kiss but was crushed in a tight embrace.

“It was the damned train. It took so long. It was stuck for fifteen minutes somewhere. I don’t even know where. Jay something or the other.”

“Jay Street-Metrotech.”

“Yeah, whatever. Then I had to get out and luckily I saw a cab. I didn’t think you got cabs here.”

“It’s still the city.”

“I know. I just had no clue yellow cabs came here. That, too, on a night like this.”

“We’re only half-hour away from Manhattan.”

“It took me forty-five minutes to get here. Maybe a bit more.”

“Well it doesn’t. It takes thirty. It’s still the city. We’re still very much in the city and it doesn’t take that much time to get here at all.”

Anjali said nothing. She looked out of the window. The street glowed orange under the lamps, as though the evening sun had cast its amber rays on white sand. A man and his dog wandered down the centre of the road.

“We love it here,” Anita went on. “The people are so much nicer. There’s a true sense of community. You don’t find that in Manhattan.”

“Yes, well, it is rather…serene…”

“We like that. We wanted that. It’s nice to raise a family here.”

Anjali reached for the menu. “Is that the wine list? Let me have a look at it.” She flipped through the front section and turned it over. Then turned it back again when she realized there was nothing on the reverse side. “That’s it?”

“That’s all they have. It’s not a fancy wine bar in Manhattan.”

“You don’t have to be a fancy wine bar to have decent wine.”

“There is decent wine.”

Anjali studied the menu closely. She wondered if the Malbec would be too heavy and tannic, as some of the cheaper ones got.

“Thanks for coming ahead and getting the table, by the way.”

“That’s okay. I told you it wouldn’t take long to get a table—forty-five minutes. It’s always like that here. They always say an hour, but it’s never an hour. It’s never over forty-five minutes.”

“I still don’t understand why they don’t take reservations.”

“It’s just the way they do it here.”

“I know, but I’m just saying…it’s quite inconsiderate, expecting people to wait like this.”

“Then you should have gone somewhere else.”

“Where else could we have gone?”

“You didn’t have to come all the way here.”

“But I wanted to come here.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“But I wanted to. I wanted to see you.”

“Since when?”

“I came, didn’t I?”

“Well, this is how things are out here. It’s different from Manhattan.”

“I’m not complaining. I just don’t understand why they can’t take reservations. Who has time on a Tuesday night to wait an hour for a table in the middle of Dyker Heights?”

“Ditmas Park.”

“Whatever.”

“We’re farther north. We’re closer to the city. There’s a lot more going on out here. There’s some really nice places if you go a few blocks over.”

“I bet they’re all cash-only and none take reservations.”

“Well we don’t mind. You put your name down and go for a drink around the corner. They call you on your phone when your table is ready. It’s a tradition. People enjoy it. Things are very laid-back here. It’s not like in Manhattan. The owners used to personally wait at the tables, but not anymore. Now the woman is too old and can’t get around. Her daughter takes care of things.”

“I just think it’s stupid.”

“It’s not. They’re really nice people.”

“Really nice people who are stupid.”

“Okay this is silly. Why are we arguing?”

“We’re not arguing. I was just stating a fact. That everyone here is nice and stupid.”

A waiter came and stood at their table. He took out a notepad and cleared his throat.

Anita had to scoot a little to the left so he wouldn’t bump into her shoulder. “Are you getting a drink?” she asked.

“Yes,” Anjali said. “I must have something to drink. God, I need it. It’s been one long day. I had to go to a really dull birthday party for a coworker before coming here. There was no alcohol. Can you believe it?”

“I meet friends without drinking.”

“Well it was quite unbearable. But she’s a very dear friend of mine and I couldn’t say no. I had to go.”

“So you do go out socially.”

“Not all the time. Sometimes. Only when it’s absolutely necessary. She’d have been very upset if I didn’t go.”

Anita folded the corner of the menu into a small triangle. “I guess we’re just too far out now.”

“It’s not that.”

“We were hoping you’d come for the baby’s rice-ceremony.”

“I really wanted to, but I was traveling.”

“You’re always traveling.”

“I’m here now.”

“But you still haven’t seen the baby.”

“I’ll see the baby.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

“This weekend? What are you doing this weekend?”

“I can’t this weekend.”

“Traveling again?”

“I…yes.”

The waiter, who was still standing there, tapped his pen against the notepad.

“Ladies…?” he said.

“Oh. Yes. Wine. I really need wine. Are you having another glass also?” Anjali asked.

“What?”

“Wine.”

“Oh. No. I’ve still got half a glass here.”

“Hmm. Hang on, let me see what you have by the glass.”

“Where do you go?” Anita asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Where do you go when you travel?”

“All over.”

“Anywhere interesting?”

“Well, two months ago, I was in Paris on a conference.”

“That’s nice.”

“Well I hate going to Paris in the winter. The best time to go is in the spring.”

“Do you go there often?”

“At least once a year.”

“You must know a lot of people there.”

“A few.”

“That’s nice,” Anita said. “I’ve met some new people since we moved here too. They all have little babies, so we go to the park together and sit for each other sometimes. We’re lucky to have that because babysitters are so expensive, you know.”

“So,” Anjali asked, “How’s it feel like to be a mom?”

“It’s amazing…I can’t put it into words…”

“That’s wonderful.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re happy?”

“I’m very happy.”

“You look it.”

“Yes. It’s hard, but it’s so satisfying.”

“And what are you doing these days?”

“I just started a new job at the Department of Health.”

“Oh. That’s great news.”

“It’s not quite what I want to do but it’s good for now. It has flexible hours and good benefits. Mark quit his job so he can focus on his writing full-time. We need the benefits. What with the baby.”

Outside, the sound of a store-shutter rattled loudly against the soundless night; the traffic light continued to blink its lonely warning.

“Should we get a bottle?” Anjali asked. “What is it you’re drinking? God! I’d get a headache if I drank that all night. Have something better. You must have something better. Should we get a bottle of the Rioja? Doesn’t seem to be much else to choose from.”

“There’s plenty to choose from.”

“It all looks a bit…”

“A bit what?”

“I’ve just never had any of these before.”

“They’re good wines. This is a good place. It may not be a trendy Soho restaurant, but it’s very good. Few people know of it. But it’s better this way. We don’t want half the city to land up here. There are lots of places like this around. You just have to know them. They don’t advertise.”

“The hidden jewels...”

“Yes. It’s the best around here.”

“Well,” Anjali said, looking at the menu, “I guess I’ll just go for a glass for now. A glass of that,” she pointed at the menu and looked up. “God. Now where did that waiter go?” Hello? Excuse me, over here!”

“Sorry, what were you saying earlier?" Anjali asked.

“What was I saying?”

“That Mark quit his job?”

“Oh yes. Mark quit his job and we moved to the studio because we needed to cut down on our expenses. We decided we could do that now, while the baby was still young. We need to do what’s important for our future.”

“Yes.”

“And this is so important to him.” Anita looked down at the menu. She knew it by heart. She knew that she wanted the cod, which is what she had when she was last there with Mark. But today she just couldn’t justify the thirty-dollar price tag.

“Well that’s what makes a good marriage—when one makes sacrifices for each other,” Anjali said.

“They’re not sacrifices. Really. They’re things I truly want to do—for him. For us. It’s a choice we’ve made.”

“And you’re happy. That’s what’s important.”

“Yes, I’m happy.” She bent the corner of the menu back and forth until a crease had formed along its edge. “Yes. I’m really happy. I don’t mind this, I know it’s just another year. He’d do the same for me.”

“You have a good man in him.”

“Yes. He is. And I’m so thankful that he’s in my life and so happy we’ve made this move. This is the right thing. I feel it.”

“Now where did that waiter go? How long must I wait for just a glass of wine? Hello? Hi, excuse me…”

“Just wait. He’ll come.” Anita played with the menu until the edge tore off and she was left with a little piece in her hand. She folded the little paper in half, then another half again. “I’d like to go to Paris sometime too,” she said.

“What?”

“A holiday. I really need one.”

“You’ll love it.”

“May be I’ll go next winter, when the baby is a bit older. May be Mark will take care of her for a week and I can go on my own.”

“You should.”

“You think so? You think I should go?”

“Why not?”

“How much do you think a ticket will cost?”

“I can’t really say. The company pays for me.”

“You think I can get a cheap ticket? You think it’s safe for me to go stay at a youth hostel by myself?”

“I’m sure you’ll be totally fine. Paris is a very safe place.”

Anita’s face lit up. “I want to buy a pair of shoes when I’m there.”

“You get amazing shoes in Paris.”

“I can’t shop a whole lot but may be one thing. I can treat myself to one good thing.”

“You should.”

“You think so? You think it’s okay that I splurge a little on myself?”

“You should spoil yourself a bit. You deserve it.”

“Sometimes I miss things.”

“Oh look, there’s a waiter. Now if only he’d look this way.”

“Mark thinks I’m too materialistic.”

“It’s not being materialistic to treat yourself every now and then.”

“You think so? Even though it comes out of our savings?”

“Absolutely.”

“Mark wants to go camping and hiking in Colorado. But I’d rather go to Paris.”

“It’s a different kind of fun.”

“I want to go alone.”

“Traveling alone is nice.”

“Yes. I want to go on my own.”

“You should.”

“But I don’t know if we can afford it. It’s not so easy right now, with Mark not working.”

“But this is just for now.”

“Yes. It’s just for now.”

“Things will change.”

“Yes, things will change.”

The room was dark. A single votive flickered on the white linen. The cutlery and plates shone in its reflection. Hot air wafted through from the kitchen.

“This is a charming little place, actually. I’m glad you brought me all the way here.”

“Yes, it’s our favourite.”

“Such a pity about their reservation policy because I would have come back otherwise. If I were ever around here, that is. Oh look—a waiter. Hey, excuse me! Hi, over here. ”

“Don’t shout. He’ll come. Relax.”

“They sure know how to keep someone waiting out here. For a table, for wine. How long does it take for the main course? An hour also?”

“You just have to build the wait time into your evening’s plans.”

“But an hour?”

“Forty-five minutes. It’s never more.”

“But why can’t they take reservations? I still don’t understand.”

“These are just neighbourhood folks that want to have a decent meal now and then. They don’t mind not having reservations. They don’t make plans weeks ahead.”

“What’s wrong with reservations? The rest of the world takes reservations. People are simply too busy to wait around an hour for a meal in Dyker Heights.”

“Ditmas Park.”

“Whatever.”

“Dyker Heights is much farther down. That’s too far. We would never move that far.”

“That is the problem with these restaurants here. They think they can do whatever they like. No reservations. No credit cards. And the worst part is that they can get away with it because the people here have no other choices.”

“Dyker Heights is dull and depressing and far from everything. But it’s not like that here. There are a lot of interesting things happening. We love it here. We go to a place on Cortelyou where there’s live music on Saturday nights.”

“I suppose it’s a different kind of life out here. I suppose once you move here, you don’t really care about things like good food and a proper wine-list. You can show up in your track-pants like that man over there and it’s okay.”

“If they took reservations, it would be booked for a whole week in advance.”

“What’s wrong with that? At least then I’d know when I was going to eat.”

“People can’t plan their lives so far ahead. Things happen. You can’t always make plans. You have to be patient and learn to make adjustments in life.”

“Well, this is why no one else will really bother coming here. This place will always remain what it is—just a half-decent neighbourhood restaurant. Nice enough I suppose, but never amazing. Although, why should I care, it’s really their loss. It’s their problem.”

“It’s your problem.”

“Why are you getting so upset? All I said was that I think this is a great restaurant but their reservation policy is completely stupid. Come on. What restaurant in Manhattan would do this? I can think of only a few and they have very good reason to.”

“What good reason?”

“They’re good.”

“This place is good.”

“Oh come on. This is just a more grown up version of Café Mimi—you remember? That little place on Sixth Avenue we used to go to when you came down for spring breaks? We’d get their cappuccino special, which came with two biscotti, because that’s all we could afford, and sit in the smoking section? You have to admit, this place is like any old joint in Manhattan.”

“Why don’t you just go back to your Manhattan.”

“You’re crying. Why are you crying?”

“I’m not crying.”

“Yes you are. You’re crying.”

“I love this place.”

“It’s a fine place.”

“It’s our favourite.”

“Just with a stupid reservation policy.”

“We’re fine with it. We don’t mind not having the best. We don’t want a front-page review or annoying people from Manhattan making a line out front.”

“But a whole hour.”

“Forty-five minutes.”

“I suppose it’s a small sacrifice to make, in the grander scheme of things. Although it’s not something I have the luxury to do.”

From the corner of her eye, Anjali saw the waiter, cleaning one of the tables. She raised her hand, and this time he saw her. He continued to wipe down the table, picked up the empty glasses and the dirty napkins, deposited them in the kitchen and then made his way to their table all the way at the far left corner. She asked for a glass of the Chianti. He was just about to turn away, but she called him back and said they were ready to order. She got the cod while Anita—the mussels.

Outside, the snow fell harder and covered everything, gathering like rolling sand dunes. Anjali worried about how she would get home. No taxi would take her in this weather. The trains too might have temporarily stopped running.

Inside, Anita felt it was summer. Thoughts festered in her like germs in hot, dank air.

“It’s not a sacrifice, really,” she said again. Then she scooped out a mussel from its shell and put it in her mouth. It wasn’t as good as usual, but perhaps, she thought, they were just too busy in the kitchen today.

Afterwards, Anjali picked up the tab, and they hugged each other goodbye. She watched as the white-capped taxi disappeared into the snowy breath of nightfall.

It was quiet outside. The calm—excruciating.

Mark was babysitting tonight while she was out. He’d said he needed to get back before ten to finish something he was working on. It wasn’t that far to Park Slope, where he was staying at his mother’s. He’d said it was easier this way. But Anita had a strong feeling in her gut that he’d return before Spring.

She had already forgotten her name—Anna, yes, that was it.

About Buku

Buku Sarkar is a Paris based writer/photographer originally from Calcutta and New York. Her collection of stories, Not Quite a Disaster After All, will be available in the US (Flowersong Press) Fall '25. Her first collection of poetry, My Dead Flowers, is forthcoming Dec '25 (Harper Collins India). She co-wrote the screenplay for The Shameless and her first monograph was Photowali Didi (Fallline Press).