Sharing for a moment
Often I go to the local coffee shop ostensibly to work, but really I am going to listen in to the vignettes which are not, as is my life, blocked by a past and a future. For me there is only the moment which they unwittingly share. Well, I say unwittingly, but, for whatever reason, they are in a public space.
Today there is a couple sitting just to the Southeast of where I am hovering like an invisible drone with ears. He seems very intent on convincing her of something. Brow furrowed, breath coming from the chest, neck tense the words seem to shoot out of his mouth. It seems as if the words come from a desperate, fearful place. The person to whom he is talking is a wisp of a woman despite her considerable height and elegant suit. She seems to disappear or perhaps it is a strategic retreat to a safe place where his words no longer reach her heart. I listen as the tears plop, plop, plop into her coffee cup; tears which no longer melt the barnacles of his oppressive need.
“I, what, how about my needs? Who put food on the table, provides a house for you and the children? Who paid for braces and all the other things you and they had to have while I….” He is not generous with his pronouns. I and me seem to take charge of his mouth.
Her silent words are very loud. “I will not. I cannot fall for this again. I cannot breathe. I need to breathe at home. Why can’t that very competent executive be present with this man? You are too threatened and I… I am tired of your whiney, self-centered, controlling self. I am sorry for your pain, but I have nothing left. I am fresh out of ego bandages.”
Suddenly I shift my attention to the couple who just sat 140 degrees to the left of this last act of the play into which the unhappy couple have fallen. This new couple are louder than the other one. As soon as they sit I hear the crinkle of the folds of the skin around his eyes as they respond to the twinkle of his eyes; eyes with which he gazes at his love. The smile which responds to the electric energy of his twinkle is loudly playful. The background is the dishes being dropped in the bin just behind them as they seem to be drawn into the music of the conversation. I am sure that I hear the dishes falling against each other in rhythm with the symphony which is simultaneously created and played by the love of this couple. Like all those who are musicians their improvisation arises out of years of practice. This new symphony is both rehearsed and new.
Two conversations. Two dances. Which one mirrors mine? Which one draws me in. What dance have I done today? What music have I played today? What will others hear as they too listen to me?
Ahh… The two men began to dance to the music they have created.
The first couple push away from each other as they continue to choreograph their death dance.
547 words
Written August 10, 2017
Often I go to the local coffee shop ostensibly to work, but really I am going to listen in to the vignettes which are not, as is my life, blocked by a past and a future. For me there is only the moment which they unwittingly share. Well, I say unwittingly, but, for whatever reason, they are in a public space.
Today there is a couple sitting just to the Southeast of where I am hovering like an invisible drone with ears. He seems very intent on convincing her of something. Brow furrowed, breath coming from the chest, neck tense the words seem to shoot out of his mouth. It seems as if the words come from a desperate, fearful place. The person to whom he is talking is a wisp of a woman despite her considerable height and elegant suit. She seems to disappear or perhaps it is a strategic retreat to a safe place where his words no longer reach her heart. I listen as the tears plop, plop, plop into her coffee cup; tears which no longer melt the barnacles of his oppressive need.
“I, what, how about my needs? Who put food on the table, provides a house for you and the children? Who paid for braces and all the other things you and they had to have while I….” He is not generous with his pronouns. I and me seem to take charge of his mouth.
Her silent words are very loud. “I will not. I cannot fall for this again. I cannot breathe. I need to breathe at home. Why can’t that very competent executive be present with this man? You are too threatened and I… I am tired of your whiney, self-centered, controlling self. I am sorry for your pain, but I have nothing left. I am fresh out of ego bandages.”
Suddenly I shift my attention to the couple who just sat 140 degrees to the left of this last act of the play into which the unhappy couple have fallen. This new couple are louder than the other one. As soon as they sit I hear the crinkle of the folds of the skin around his eyes as they respond to the twinkle of his eyes; eyes with which he gazes at his love. The smile which responds to the electric energy of his twinkle is loudly playful. The background is the dishes being dropped in the bin just behind them as they seem to be drawn into the music of the conversation. I am sure that I hear the dishes falling against each other in rhythm with the symphony which is simultaneously created and played by the love of this couple. Like all those who are musicians their improvisation arises out of years of practice. This new symphony is both rehearsed and new.
Two conversations. Two dances. Which one mirrors mine? Which one draws me in. What dance have I done today? What music have I played today? What will others hear as they too listen to me?
Ahh… The two men began to dance to the music they have created.
The first couple push away from each other as they continue to choreograph their death dance.
547 words
Written August 10, 2017
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