Two strangers…
Seven years in destitution
No, she can’t make peace with it. The world spins but hers is that spinster self which can’t bear with it. She hangs her head out of despair.
The clatter of spoons and other fancy cutlery doesn’t soothe her. She stares, or tries to stare outside at the busy road. It is unyielding. The place is so crowded. Too much for a family restaurant. She’s sitting alone. Alone with her solitude and absolute mastery of the gnawing silences, she sits, resolute. A mere look into her eyes would spark a conversation, but who deigns to stoop so low? She’s going to die alone and she knows it, that’s what makes her so very sad.
Two chairs from her, a man sits with his cups and saucers for company. It is quite unsettling to watch. How he appears to be talking to the wine chalice while in fact he was muttering something to himself. A trace of white cords confirms her suspicion that he was listening to music. Perhaps singing along to it.
She looks around herself to see if anyone, any being, is looking her way. No body. A fly zaps past, sits on her nose, her bowl of cold noodles, her perspiring neck and glass of formerly-chilled smoothie, lying in neglect. She focuses on the man in the white shirt.
For the record, he looks kind of old. His hair is greying in places, no bald patches yet, but still. He turns all of a sudden to cock his head ever so slightly, so that his chin comes to rest on his shoulder blades and everything comes to a dead standstill as two strangers are a second away from looking at each other. Any moment now.
But she looks away at the most crucial. From the corner of her eyes, she sees him summon the waiter. She looks at him again, resigned. He was probably leaving. Her former husband looked older than he was, but he looked happy. After the waiter had made him a visit, he started gathering his belongings, about to get up.
Seven years in destitution.
She overlooks her smattering of a table. She sees the scribbles she’d drawn a week ago, and the rose from Tuesday, the calligraphy from Thursday. And the cold beverages from today.
She’d been here every week. She sighs and looks at him again. It was her who had forced the divorce. She wanted no alimony. Not quite. She had her means. But this jolly man with hair greying at the temples was walking through it all. Possibly remarried, who knows? Gerald was a trusted authority in secretiveness.
She musters up the courage but fails. She gets up, having already paid the bill, and begins to leave.
“Samantha!” Gerry calls to her. The very timbre from all those years ago. She turns to look at the most peaceful face she’d ever seen. She closes her eyes to reclaim her balance.
“What, Gerald.”
Two strangers stare at each other.
They clasp hands, and when they get out of the packed restaurant, leaving behind all the inane chatter and the clatter and the aplomb, she sees in his eyes the semblance of a promise.
“I’m sorry.”
“I know...”
Strangers cease to exist. A void isn’t there anymore. They start talking.
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