The first thing I noticed was the flash of her earrings. They were golden leaves, twinkles that framed her face. Her hair was pulled back into a neat burn, her eyes softly drooping as I last remembered them. Trails of glitter glimmered around them. Something new, or maybe not.
We hugged, arms hoping to remember something our time apart might have lost, sat down, and selected our coffees.
Waves of conversations and people intermingled into the vicinities of our consciousness, in-and-out, in-and-out, sometimes veering dangerously into our space. But we kept our focus to within the sharp edges of our square table.
Were there other emotions other than the tenderness at our long-awaited reunion? I certainly felt tension bobbing and ballooning within my chest from where I sat.
Our entre for the evening was a light update on where we stood in life. We talked about her school – a very good school. We talked about my work – good work, or so I persuaded myself as I prattled on about the new knowledge I was gaining and my colleagues. We alighted briefly on common territory – God, Jesus, St. Augustine, Christianity – and veered into our separate experiences: She had found a community in her new church; I admitted I did not know what community meant. She wanted to be more mature; I sought to find the elixir of life.
The waitress came around with our orders: a cappuccino for me, over which I commentated on the microfoam, the consistent texture of the milk, the cinnamon powder sprinkled delicately on top. As if I knew something. But I was a newly-ordained barista and had legitimate know-how. She had ordered a cappuccino shake, to which neither she nor I passed many words about. Not that I would have had much to say even if I did.
She continued: she was broken and sinful. But paradoxically, she felt more gratitude toward God.
Somehow, I wanted to protest. But I swallowed my words down along with the now-bitter and cooling cappuccino that I was starting to have regretted ordering. What was wrong with me?
The waitress swung by our table, once. Twice. And then again, alighting off with our empty mugs with coffee stains on the bottom. Returning with the check. And still, we sat, her sharing more and me nurturing the hope that my heart would somehow soften to a friend’s words by the time we had to relinquish our seats to the next people who came into this dessert shop.
If only she wasn’t attending a good school. And if only I wasn’t working a good job.
inner stitches - interstices 