Plates set out for the dinner meal, fork and knife and claw crackers and picks. And several napkins and individual butter bowls. Wineglasses filled with sparkling white–to be proper, of course. No bibs; we change our shirts instead.
Eight pounds of lobster, one slightly less than four, one slightly more, together bright red in a bowl at center table. I pull off a leg and claw from "Tiny" and start right in. He takes the other off–a thoughtful gesture and I know it. "The claw’s as big as my hand," I say. He says, "Remember the one on our honeymoon; the claw was as big as mine." We laugh, remembering the single eight-pound pet upon our plate.
Lobster and melted butter, nothing else. The wine alone to help it down and maybe keeping it afloat inside. "Remember Raine," he says. I nod and smile. It has become our name for Maine since every year we went for seven years and every year the sky was grey and wet.
I take the smaller lobster body, expert at breaking it in half and flipping out the meat. The legs I’ll suck on later. "You haven’t used your fork," he says. I simply lick the butter from my fingers. It is a feast enjoyed best in the basest way. "You’ve left me the bigger one," he says. "I must still love you then," I say. Last night; our sixteenth anniversary.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology