Blonde hair, consciously chosen, low-cut, tight fitted top. Inviting bosom. Nervous glances, looking back at the counter towards the man. Slowly comes and sits right infront of me, on this faded, depressed couch. Staring into space, twiddling her thumbs. Straightening her perfect hair, adjusting the fitted top that couldn’t be adjusted.
He comes by, she gives him space. He sits right by her. 6 inches apart, 6 worlds away. She nervously smiles, he relaxes into the couch. He starts playing with his hair, pulls out his phone, scrolls through banal web stimuli. Continues to wrap an unwinding strand of hair in his searching finger. He stares out the window. She looks at him, looks away. He looks at her, then outside.
He: “I just can’t talk about things I am not comfortable talking about.” Her eyes well up with tears. He continues, “I feel like I am being forced to talk about things I can’t say much about. It is what it is.”
The waitress brings their food. A strawberry banana waffle for him, a ham and cheese omelette for her. Poles apart; were they always this different? Or were the laws of attraction overpowering the laws of genetics back when all this happened? Whatever it was, it was of course on the cusp of transience and I could smell the detachment 6 feet away.
She tore the omelette with her fork, he destroyed the waffle in his mouth, overglazed with syrup. Another 6 minutes of silence. He said, “How is your food?”. She rolled her eyes and kept quiet.
He finished his food and sat back. She continued to lean forward into her plate. “This is really good”, she struggled to finish her sentence. She couldn’t take another bite as a salty ocean splased through her bright blue eyes and flooded over the hills of her cheeks straight into the curve of her tense, red lips.
At that point, I decided to get back to my book…