Part 2: A Brother & Sister

Part 1: Here

My first instinct is to squint, because without my glasses I can’t be sure he’s crying. Sensing my gaze, he turns and we awkwardly make eye contact. He quickly glances away; it is a tear.

“Bad day?” I fumble, not knowing what to say. Turning back, he feigns a smile and sniffles “Yeah.”
I wave my hand at the stack, “At least you’re reading cheery books.”
“These were my sisters books,” he says, trailing off and looking away. “She, uh, left them to me.”

I won’t recount all of the conversation’s details, but what became clear was that his younger sister had passed away. He expressed how he had never been a very good brother. How he used to dismember her dolls, just to see her cry. How in elementary school he had mocked her in front of his friends, and in high-school used her looks to be popular with the senior boys.

Five years ago: a brain tumor. By the time it was discovered: inoperable. Six months later: a funeral.

You might suppose that such a conversation is unlikely: that a stranger would not be so open in such a public place. I will not deny that I was uncomfortable, or that other eavesdropping patrons were not also uncomfortable. Some got up and left.

I’m not a swimmer, but when you’re training to be a lifeguard, I’m told, you’re instructed never to get too close to someone who is drowning. The victim, unknowingly, will fight you: grabbing, and clinging until they pull you under. Desperation drives the victim to act irrationally; fear overwhelms them.

Part 1:The Coffee Shop

Sometimes I like to sit in a coffee shop and write. It somehow seems appropriate and I think it has something to do with being in an environment where I’m surrounded by people, but not involved with those people.

Today, however, I am involved. Not by choice though. You see, I seem to have writer’s block. I have before me a list of perfectly good topics–interesting, thrilling, emotional topics. When it comes down to writing, though, I’ve not been able to make any headway. Furthermore, I paid $4 for this ridiculous drink, so leaving before today is productive isn’t an option.

After about an hour of struggling in futility, I found myself drifting around the room. Taking stock of my fellow patrons wasn’t easy. I didn’t want them to know I was sizing them up. I would glance ever so briefly at someone, and then turn away, before they could sense my eyes.

In truth, the shop wasn’t particularly busy, or exciting. To my left is an old man reading the paper. He is dressed neatly in grey trousers, with a matching tweed jacket. I can’t know for certain, but I’d guess that his socks are pulled up to his knees. Further left, is the friendly, but frumpy clerk; and further still is a group of women who seem to be going through a morning ritual. At a table quite close to me, on my right, is another man about my age. He is somewhat tall, with dark features, and a melancholy posture. He is brooding before a table stacked with books.

My second glance at the man on my right is somewhat more liberal; it is less of a glance, and really more of a peer. I’m curious about his books and two titles are visible. Albert Camus’The Outsider and Jean-Paul Sartre’s Nausea. The titles seem predictable, and I can’t help but wonder if he doesn’t also have some Kierkegaard dispersed through the pile. He too, appears to be writing–which reminds me of why I came here, and paid for an overpriced drink. I’m just about to turn back to my work, when I notice a singular tear running down his face.