Judging from what little profile I can see peaking out from behind her long hair, she could be quite lovely. The lips — puffy and full — are enviable: She’s got that Jolie-esque fold in her lower lip that promises that the size of it — is real. The tiniest tip of her nose right above reminds me of that one exotic berry that starts with an “L”.
Yes, she could be quite lovely; but ever since I’ve walked into this tiny joint, the woman, sitting at the corner table, hasn’t stopped speaking. She’s got her iPhone, plugged into the wall, resting on the table next to two empty coffee cups. Another device — a spinoff of the iPhone — is heavily protected with two plastic cases and a belt clip. She takes turns dialing numbers on both things, and texting on whichever device is not being held up to her ear.
Her language — is foreign, heavily nasal; which makes her voice quite high. And that pitch could be quite lovely if she didn’t sound like she was whining. Whenever she switches to the iPhone, she returns to English; and I wonder if the list of her griefs, in that other nasal language, is similar:
“That guy is an asshole.”
And: “I’ve got no fucking money!”
Oh, I get it, sweetheart: Life’s unfair and hard. But it’s 9:00 o’clock in the morning, and most of us haven’t even finished our coffee yet. You — have had two.
From where I study the menu written on an overhead blackboard, I shoot her a glance. Her hair is frizzy, unevenly straightened. She is wearing jeans with a puffy vest. On her feet, I see those thick-soled, oddly shaped shoes meant to shape a woman’s behind by replacing exercise.
She picks up her iPhone again: The topic of the asshole guy is recycled. Her volume could be quite normal; but the joint is tiny and she attracts attention of every human, still barely awake; including the mustached line cook who, upon my entry, asked me to try a sliver of bacon sizzling in his metal tongs.
“Breakfast, beauty?” he says and I imagine his previous life as a Navy chef.
I smile but then realize half of my face is buried in my heavy knit scarf. So, I lift my chin and smile again.
This morning could be lovely, still.
A pretty hippie couple is lingering at the register: He is beach-blond, she is petite and an exotic mix of something gorgeous. Whenever he speaks to her, he lifts up his arms and folds his hands behind his head: He is shy — she thrills him. His white terrycloth shirt rides up every time, and in the slender torso of this beautiful young man I can see the little boy stretching in his highchair, while waking slowly. Gently.
The sound of some old song comes on over the radio. It makes me think of a Christmas-themed lullaby and of slow mornings that are always lovely that time of year.
And this morning could be lovely — if only we could keep quiet and still for a while.
The radio switches to some dissonant jazz tune and the could-be-lovely girl, juggling her devices at the corner table, picks up her iPhone again and switches languages:
“That guy is such an asshole,” the petite creature ahead of me quotes discreetly.
I chuckle. I get the couple’s attention; but then realize half of my face is buried in my heavy knit scarf. So, I lift my chin and chuckle again.
“Are we playing Cowboys and Indians this morning?” the man at the register says to me when it’s my turn to order. I look up: He’s wrapped a cloth napkin around the bottom half of his face and smiles at me, with only his eyes.
I smile; then, realize that half of my face is invisible. So, I lift my chin — and smile.
“Where is your bathroom — or don’t you have one?!” the could-be-lovely creature interjects quite loudly, and with a single gesture of tongs from the mustached Navy chef, she storms off in that direction. We wait for the passing of her busy noises and the departure of her griefs through the front door.
And when she does depart, her table is taken over by an older couple with a beautiful blue-eyed boy under their care. He can’t be older than five, is barely awake and clutching a robot of military green. The robot is wrapped in a baby blanket.
They could easily be the boys’ grandparents, but they don’t dote or baby-talk. Instead, they are acutely aware, and they answer to his needs quietly.
At first, I brace myself: The boy could be quite lovely. But he could also be a complete riot: His physical beauty could fully justify his bratty habits. But he slides into the chair near mine, stretches the corner of his baby blanket on the edge of the table and rests his blond curls on it. The older woman sits next to him and buries her gentle hand in his hair.
The beautiful blue-eyed boy stretches, while slowly waking.
The couple grabs a newspaper from the counter: She reads the news, he skims through the Calendar section. They speak to each other, quietly; while the boy drifts in and out of sleep. When the food arrives, he shifts. The mother (she IS his mother after all, I figure out) begins helping him with his utensils.
The boy whimpers: He wants to do it himself. With a single gesture, the woman calms him — “Hush-hush, my gentle little man…” — and the family returns to their quiet morning routine.
Ah. This morning could be lovely, still. And it could be quiet. And I wonder for how long I can keep holding on, today, to this gentle start of it — and to this gentle pace.