FICLET: Window to the Soul
A stealth Purim ficlet for octette:
Window to the Soul
It’s the kind of diner you’re only in at three in the morning because you’re buzzing so high you’re not coming down for days or you’ve got someone in the hospital across the street. The guy at the table is obviously the latter, but Travie is definitely the former, so he slides in across from him and lays both hands flat on the table.
He looks up, and he’s got haunted eyes. Travie’s seen those eyes before too many times to count. Too many times in his own damn mirror. “Can I help you?”
“Nah, man.” Travie waves to the waitress for a coffee and a refill for the other guy. She comes over with a cup for him and waits, looking at the other guy. Travie figures terminal illness. That explains the eyes and the fact that she seems to know him.
“Diego?”
“It’s fine, Maria.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
She gives Travie a warning look and then puts his cup down, filling it full before topping off Diego’s. After she leaves, Travie leans back, his hands still on the table. He’s been thinking about ink on his hands and fingers, but right now his sleeves end at his wrists. “Wife?”
“Pardon?” Diego looks at him again, and Travie wonders if he’s even seeing him.
“Wife?” He nods at the hospital.
“What? Oh. No. No. Well, yes. Not...not at the hospital. Divorcing. An old friend. We grew up together. He’s very...ill.” Diego drinks his coffee absently, staring out the window again. After a few moments, he seems to come back into his head. “I’m sorry. You?”
“Nobody. No. It’s just on my way home.” He drinks his coffee, watching Diego carefully. When he’s high like this emotions get stronger, smells and colors and tastes that linger on the back of his tongue. “He’s like a brother to you?”
“That is...yes. Like a brother.”
He’s lying, but Travie gets it. He’s a complete stranger, some one this dude’s never met. Besides, it sounds like he’s been lying for a long time. “Have you said goodbye?”
“Tonight. He is...”
Travie reaches out and touches the back of Diego’s hand. He can feel the tremor, the tightening of his muscles as he tries to stop himself. Travie shakes his head and rubs his thumb over Diego’s knuckles. It’s a small measure of comfort, a barely-there touch, but it seems to shatter something inside Diego. Tears flood his eyes and he turns his head, looking away from Travie. “It’s cool. I’ll stay here with you. The coffee pot in this place is never empty, and I’ve got nowhere else I need to be.”
Window to the Soul
It’s the kind of diner you’re only in at three in the morning because you’re buzzing so high you’re not coming down for days or you’ve got someone in the hospital across the street. The guy at the table is obviously the latter, but Travie is definitely the former, so he slides in across from him and lays both hands flat on the table.
He looks up, and he’s got haunted eyes. Travie’s seen those eyes before too many times to count. Too many times in his own damn mirror. “Can I help you?”
“Nah, man.” Travie waves to the waitress for a coffee and a refill for the other guy. She comes over with a cup for him and waits, looking at the other guy. Travie figures terminal illness. That explains the eyes and the fact that she seems to know him.
“Diego?”
“It’s fine, Maria.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
She gives Travie a warning look and then puts his cup down, filling it full before topping off Diego’s. After she leaves, Travie leans back, his hands still on the table. He’s been thinking about ink on his hands and fingers, but right now his sleeves end at his wrists. “Wife?”
“Pardon?” Diego looks at him again, and Travie wonders if he’s even seeing him.
“Wife?” He nods at the hospital.
“What? Oh. No. No. Well, yes. Not...not at the hospital. Divorcing. An old friend. We grew up together. He’s very...ill.” Diego drinks his coffee absently, staring out the window again. After a few moments, he seems to come back into his head. “I’m sorry. You?”
“Nobody. No. It’s just on my way home.” He drinks his coffee, watching Diego carefully. When he’s high like this emotions get stronger, smells and colors and tastes that linger on the back of his tongue. “He’s like a brother to you?”
“That is...yes. Like a brother.”
He’s lying, but Travie gets it. He’s a complete stranger, some one this dude’s never met. Besides, it sounds like he’s been lying for a long time. “Have you said goodbye?”
“Tonight. He is...”
Travie reaches out and touches the back of Diego’s hand. He can feel the tremor, the tightening of his muscles as he tries to stop himself. Travie shakes his head and rubs his thumb over Diego’s knuckles. It’s a small measure of comfort, a barely-there touch, but it seems to shatter something inside Diego. Tears flood his eyes and he turns his head, looking away from Travie. “It’s cool. I’ll stay here with you. The coffee pot in this place is never empty, and I’ve got nowhere else I need to be.”