Another short
I didn’t want to notice that the woman sitting to my left was sobbing into her napkin. I tried refolding my newspaper, sipping loudly at my coffee, and scraping my fork against the bottom of my plate. The sobbing died down a little, but only to be replaced by loud sniffles, the kind that might as well be sobs, for all of the emotion that they broadcast. The diner waitress stopped only long enough to slop coffee back into my cup, ignoring my open and engaging smile, my silent plea for at least marginal weather conversation. She ignored the weeping woman just as efficiently as she ignored me, dropping extra napkins next to the woman and bustling on.
I sighed inwardly and prepared to clear my throat. The woman was obviously in distress, and it wouldn’t harm me to try and help. She looked tired, and the patient bracelet on her wrist suggested that she had recently been hospitalized. I took a sip of coffee and prepared my awkward social intrusion. The breath to ask the question hadn’t been fully drawn when I was saved from my dilemma. Her cell phone rang from the depths of a raincoat pocket, blaring a muted, frantic dance beat at odds with her melancholy. As awkward as things already were, they were about to get interesting.
Listening to cell phone conversations is fascinating, because it’s like watching someone perform a stage piece perfectly. You can’t usually hear the other side of the conversation, so it could be a memorized monologue for all you know. I picked at my buckwheat pancakes and tried not to look like I was listening. “What?” This was obviously not a business call. “No, I’m not okay, what do you think?” Not a “Happy Birthday” call either. “It was our baby, Chad! My baby!” One piece spun into place, and I felt a sliver of sympathy. “I could take it when you hurt me, asshole, but there’s no coming back from this!”
I felt a warm flush creep up the back of my neck. This was personal. Very personal. “You’re not sorry. If you had it in you to be sorry, you wouldn’t have hit me. If you wouldn’t have hit me, our baby wouldn’t have died!” My breathing grew a little more rapid, and with a little more difficulty. The anger here was not meant for public consumption. “You didn’t know? That’s your excuse for hitting me?” The waitress paused, unsure if she should bother acting like she wasn’t listening as well. “I’m coming back later today, and I’m bringing my brother with me. I’m getting my stuff, and I’m leaving. Do all of us a favor, and don’t be there.” I pushed my plate away, and the waitress took this as her cue, bringing me my check. I glanced over at the woman, and her anger was like a beacon. She stabbed at the disconnect button on her cell, and stood up. Rather than look away, I offered her what I hoped was a look of sympathy. She looked away, her anger mixed with shame, and walked toward the door. She was a broken young woman, who was almost a mother, and her twin burdens of sorrow and grief were heavy. I nodded to the waitress, who was frozen with a look of dismay of her own, and indicated that I would like to pick up her check. It was the least that I could do, watching her walk out into the bright sunlight of her unfolding destiny.
I sighed inwardly and prepared to clear my throat. The woman was obviously in distress, and it wouldn’t harm me to try and help. She looked tired, and the patient bracelet on her wrist suggested that she had recently been hospitalized. I took a sip of coffee and prepared my awkward social intrusion. The breath to ask the question hadn’t been fully drawn when I was saved from my dilemma. Her cell phone rang from the depths of a raincoat pocket, blaring a muted, frantic dance beat at odds with her melancholy. As awkward as things already were, they were about to get interesting.
Listening to cell phone conversations is fascinating, because it’s like watching someone perform a stage piece perfectly. You can’t usually hear the other side of the conversation, so it could be a memorized monologue for all you know. I picked at my buckwheat pancakes and tried not to look like I was listening. “What?” This was obviously not a business call. “No, I’m not okay, what do you think?” Not a “Happy Birthday” call either. “It was our baby, Chad! My baby!” One piece spun into place, and I felt a sliver of sympathy. “I could take it when you hurt me, asshole, but there’s no coming back from this!”
I felt a warm flush creep up the back of my neck. This was personal. Very personal. “You’re not sorry. If you had it in you to be sorry, you wouldn’t have hit me. If you wouldn’t have hit me, our baby wouldn’t have died!” My breathing grew a little more rapid, and with a little more difficulty. The anger here was not meant for public consumption. “You didn’t know? That’s your excuse for hitting me?” The waitress paused, unsure if she should bother acting like she wasn’t listening as well. “I’m coming back later today, and I’m bringing my brother with me. I’m getting my stuff, and I’m leaving. Do all of us a favor, and don’t be there.” I pushed my plate away, and the waitress took this as her cue, bringing me my check. I glanced over at the woman, and her anger was like a beacon. She stabbed at the disconnect button on her cell, and stood up. Rather than look away, I offered her what I hoped was a look of sympathy. She looked away, her anger mixed with shame, and walked toward the door. She was a broken young woman, who was almost a mother, and her twin burdens of sorrow and grief were heavy. I nodded to the waitress, who was frozen with a look of dismay of her own, and indicated that I would like to pick up her check. It was the least that I could do, watching her walk out into the bright sunlight of her unfolding destiny.