Couple in a Coffee Shop

Couple in a Coffee Shop

She looked as if her beauty had failed her and she was looking for someone to blame.  Bleached hair, well past its last bleaching, random hairpins, crinkled eyes failing to mask hidden anger.  I’ve seen women like this.  Approach them as you would a wounded badger baring its teeth.

“What are you staring at?” She asked with a razor-like slash of subject, verb, and object.

I held up my coffee cup in a toast and smiled.  “A beautiful woman who doesn’t know she’s beautiful.” In my experience, women enjoy a good, honest lie, especially if it gives no hint of a come-on.

She gave a short huff and went back to reading her book, “A Child of the Wind,” by Lora Lane Gibbons.

“I enjoyed that book myself.”  Not that I’ve ever read it, and by the cover, never will.

She tapped her foot in time to imaginary music and went on reading.

The bell at the front door did its ding-a-ling and I felt a cool rush of air. A tall, thin man approached her table and sat down without asking. She didn’t look up, but whispered under her breath, “I thought we’d finished this conversation.”  He ran fingers through his disheveled hair and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

Apparently, this would be much more interesting than her book, at least for me.  I’m not a psychologist or psychiatrist.  In other words, I’m not crazy with my own problems.  But I do enjoy the interaction between couples.  

“Look,” the man said, “I told you I was sorry.”

“And you think a simple, insincere ‘sorry’ makes everything ok?”  Now, she did look up, but only for a second or two before going back to her book.

“Do you mind not doing that?” he said.

“Doing what?” said razor tongue.

“Reading the damn book!”

“You don’t have to use profanity.”

“But this morning, when you called me a bastard, was ok?”

He was making mistake after mistake.  Rule number one when talking to a woman, especially a harried woman: Never allow yourself to be distracted, especially when she changes the subject to lead you off topic.  But, his first mistake was changing the subject himself with a remark about the book.  Gotta keep on topic.

She knew the rules and didn’t bother to answer.  By the look on his face, he took this as a victory, which is exactly what she wanted him to think. She’s moved him far off the subject of apologies and the brouhaha they had earlier.  Her anger remains intact.  She’s winning. The score is one - nil.

The silence was deafening, broken when the waitress came to take his order and ask her if she’d like a refill.

He started to say something and I’d bet he’s itching to decline ordering anything.  Miss Disheveled gave him a gut-ripping stare.  He stuttered and ordered coffee.

“Nothing to eat?” asked the waitress.

Now he’s at a real disadvantage.  Two women, one of whom will only be satisfied with his early death and the second who’d like him to make up his mind, quit hesitating and order something simple off the menu, without asking for any substitutions.

“Toast, please” Then they did the dance of which toast, buttered or unbuttered, whether he’d like jelly, and so on.

“Wheat, no jelly, but plenty of butter,” he said, looking the waitress in the eyes and not smiling.

“Ok,” she said and trotted off.  Moments later she returned with his coffee and two tiny plastic containers of cream.

When the waitress departed, he said, “Margaret, can we just drop this whole thing?  I said I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t just any dish you broke!  It was an heirloom, David!”

I’d bet this guy will charge into her territory with a frontal assault.  Never wise, in my judgment. 

“Yeah, an heirloom we seldom used!  A dust collector!  It was an accident, for god’s sake!”

“It was my mother’s.” This is indeed sacred territory.

Doesn’t take much psychiatry to realize this goes much deeper than smashed china. More like the story of the camel and the last straw.

I’ve finished my coffee and the conversation may go around in circles for eternity.  I stood, gave a nod toward the couple and said, “Margie, you told me this might take some time, but I can’t wait any longer….” I wink. “Give me a call later.”  Then I walked to the door of the coffee shop, heard the tinkle of the bell as I opened and shut the door behind me.

Before it closed, I heard, “You told me you hate to be called Margie…and…and who was that guy?  How long has this been going on?”

I gave the guy the perfect pitch.  He should have knocked it out of the ballpark, but instead, he stepped out of the batter’s box.  And her next pitch is going is to be for the final out.