Seated in Woodland Coffee Roasters and Café, the chill of the air conditioning has Evelyn huddled against her dad while they stand in line to order. Other T-shirt-wearing patrons hold their arms tightly across their chests.
I’m seated at a table, saving it, even though my territorial choice may have been for nothing—two other tables were just cleared and readied.
People-watching, along with quick assessments of their probable lives, is the game I play. A couple at the table to my left, the only African American couple here, is first up. Her fro—tight black curls with caramel-brown highlights—matches her shirt, belt, and boots. I’m especially impressed by the arrow-point toe tip of the boots and the metallic gold pedestal supporting it. Her companion’s gold chain echoes her gold, and that little detail is a bonus track layered over their closeness, elbows propped over a crumbled-down blueberry treat on this deep-fall Saturday. It’s them, after a scan of the twenty or so people here, that I decide have the richest, coolest, most vibrant life—one I’d want to hear every word about if given the chance.
On the other side of the pendulum is a Wicked Witch pedaling her bike, one of a family of three who cross my line of sight. Her tight perm, still wet, is tucked an inch past her ears. Her arms fold tight across her chest, and her mouth’s fixed frown leaves little room for hope. She casts her gaze down at each table she passes, her whole body tense, recoiled like a serpent readying—one button-push away from a strike.
I secretly hope she catches my eye. I sit upright, ready, steady. I want her to know I see her, that I’m paying attention, not intimidated.
I don’t get the chance, and my gaze stays on her, curious. Huddling in close behind her are her 15-year-old daughter and her husband—normal enough. The daughter asks something; the woman answers, and the daughter’s body withers, deflates. But then the daughter thinks better, and protests.
Strike!
“No! No! No!” says Mom, each word is emphasized and its own whip-like cut. Her finger slices the air with each utterance. Then, turning her back to the silenced, head-down girl, mother whips a phone up to her ear and talks. Unavailable. Dad stands behind them, obviously aware, but offers nothing of himself to either as he looks up at the menu.
I want to take on the unfairness for the daughter, but I can’t. I won’t. I know it’s hers to carry, and that if I look too long into that mirror…
So, I just write—letting the keys catch what my chest can’t hold. And as the café hums back to life around me, I feel the smallest shift inside: the girl’s story isn’t mine, but the ache it touches is. So I stay with the words instead of the wound, letting the moment settle on the page, where it can live without taking root in me. f. So I do the thing I can do: I start to type.
Going On 40 