In the waiting room we sit in silence. I have a feeling pressure, the emotional kind, lies heavy on his heart today. I wait for him to speak. Glass of cold water in right hand; eyes fixed on something down and beyond. The doctor didn’t help him as much as he usual does today. Silence. And then, “I’m in a bad way…” he reveals to me. I continue to look at him as I nod my head, somehow understanding the deeper shades of his meaning. “My heart is breaking,” Morris takes another sip so as to keep the rumble from erupting in his throat. “Yes.” I say. He looks at me with the sincerest and longing of eyes before continuing, “My girlfriend of 20 years doesn’t want me anymore.” He takes a sip.
She is just beautiful. I think she’s probably the most striking woman I’ve seen in here, yet. At the moment, I can’t seem to marry her beauty to a particular era or style, but my gut is telling me so. And she always looks glamorous. Today she moves through a rich, forest green, short, silk dress. It could totally be misread as a silk gown for bed, comfy yet elegant. She has the privilege of owning the thickest, richest, healthiest hair, with soft waves cascading down her back and shoulders. Ok, sounds like I’m overreacting but it’s true. I’m going to call her by her last name, because it’s a pretty unique one, “Denja,” almost like, “danger”.
Don’t we learn? Don’t we wake up at some point? Don’t we stop the situation in the moment, and like that special effects found in movies, clap our hands and say, “Stop!” and the whole scene is frozen in front of us until we take a breath, gather ourselves and suss out the situation before acting on a reaction. Right? Something like that.
Who: Him & Her
City: New York, NY
They look so good together. They are both aware of how her bodies fits perfectly into his; her calf tied around his ankle, her arm under his, her head on his shoulder, hand in hand. He reciprocates, warmly, and then he or she remove themselves from the huddle, delicately. They talk and laugh and seem so familiar with each other. That’s the hardest part. At intermission, she massages his head, her fingers gripping bunches of his hair and squeezing them. He gives off a relaxed yet pleasurable moan. Not too much to give away the subtle, subtle message, “I like this now but it doesn’t mean anything for later.” She reciprocates this unanimous and invisible handshake of, “I get it.” And yet, an outsider needs a microscope to see these tiniest of subtleties. A blink and you miss it.