There she was. Wrapped within a large,
ungraceful, brown shape, the coat it gave that illusion. A large
brown bear encasing her in his grasp. Hunched with burden, her face
wore the heavy veil of gloom, not to mention the weight of the bear.
Her gloom killed the mood of that side of the room.
She loomed over a mug of tea. No china
princess was she. Always the same, a mug, no menu. A weekly routine:
Lunch - Tea and turkey club in the
booth in the back.
One night a week, as it was with her lunch,
she would come in for dinner. Always at six o’clock and the same
booth, and always the same thing:
Dinner - the Stroganoff, toast and the
tea.
Her hair is brown, undramatic, worn
straight and cut blunt at about the shoulder line. Her eyes, dark,
brown but maybe black, and always downcast in the shadows. She will don reading
glasses on occasion but knows the menu and doesn’t seem one to mix
books with food. Too messy, too much respect for the book, one too
many spills perhaps, perhaps to a favorite, at that. Instead the
occasional magazine or newspaper, the local arts and underground
throw away from the wire stand near the café entrance. Could be she
was either avant garde or just a pragmatist? Maybe something caught
her eye or she was just bored. And boring…but by choice. It would
appear that she, trying to fit in, fit behind, slipped under - it
appeared she was trying to diss-appear.
I speculate she is a seamstress, or a
grade school teacher, or a writer. Wonder what depressing prose she
must muster? She made me melancholy, just watching, with a tinge of
pain. Like she should be seated at the window of some dim diner, with a backdrop of the
rain. The room seemed to grow quiet, then the place was emptying out, but we lingered. And if
a jukebox was playing, I didn't notice
V
