an exercise in no expectations

She’s watching people again. She thinks no ones notices as she does it but she’s not as discrete as she thinks she is. If she were half as pretty, she wouldn’t get away with it. Except she’s absolutely stunning and so she can what she likes. 

I asked once what she thinks of when she stares at people the way she does. She seemed caught off guard that I’d noticed at all but then she turned around and explained to me anyway. To her, the diner is a stage and everyone inside is a character in a play. 

Tonight, there’s a boy her eyes have been focused on all night. He’s a bit on the unkempt side, wearing clothes that’s wrinkled from the bottom of his pant legs to the collar of his shirt. The subtle refined way in which he carries himself marks him as interesting however. 

To her, he must look like a top secret service agent weeks into an assignment getting no sleep and all the action. He must look like a wealthy heir who had been kidnapped but has found refuge in a bar on the side of the road. He must look like a salary man who was kicked to the curb by his wife for the last time. 

I almost burst out laughing when she accidentally stamps one of her hands into a platter of enchiladas. I turn around before she sees me and head back into the kitchen. 

Later into the night, as I’m preparing to leave, I see her watching the same boy again. She’s sitting under the booth with the overhead lamp that doesn’t work, drying glasses with a rag. Despite being distracted, her rote movements make it unlikely she’ll break a glass so I leave her to it. 

Mildly curious of the boy, I turn towards him. He’s slumping over the table, his paid dishes pushed to one side. He seems ready to sleep there tonight and I think he’s been misinformed by the ’24 Hour’ sign hanging behind the bar. It’s not my problem tonight so I ignore him. 

As I’m clocking out, eager to return to my cat, I see her stand and walk over to the boy’s booth. Her short stature means she’s not much taller standing than the boy is sitting. As she talks to him, I can imagine her slow drawl and mocking tone. 

Strangely, the boy is smiling up at her which is unusual because that’s not the reaction she tends to elicit in others. This boy, nevertheless, seems genuinely amused at whatever she’s saying. She must find him strange too because she frowns. 

I don’t move even though nothing is keeping me here anymore, captured by the sight of the two of them together. They go back and forth for a bit longer before the boy gets up and leaves, the bell clinking behind him. She turns around herself soon after and returns to drying the glasses, shooting me a nod when she sees me. I quickly leave after that. 

When I come back to work two days later on Wednesday evening, I find the boy in the diner again. This time he’s sitting across from her as they both snack on a basket of fries. She’s eating them with barbecue sauce and he’s eating them naked. A ketchup bottle stands untouched hugging the wall. 

Years later, after I’ve become a better friend to her, she’ll share the story of this boy with me. She’ll tell me of how he was just passing through and of the week they spent chatting together but not laughing because that’s not the kind person she is. She’ll tell me that he left when his father came knocking and that the boy disappeared as quickly as he’d arrived. 

One day, as I’m wiping down the tables of a different diner in a different city in a business of my own, I get a call from her. On my phone, she’s listed as *^* .  

She tells me that she ran into the boy again and that the new house she’s cleaning belongs to him, his wife, and their eight-year old daughter. She tells me that he didn’t recognize her and she tells me how that made her feel. She tells me that he smiled at her the same way he did when they met the first time anyway. She says she wants to see him again. 

I asked her why. 

She doesn’t answer. I know she doesn’t know why she agreed to reignite a connection to a boy she met almost a decade ago. I know that she did it because she usually thrives on spontaneity. I ask her to pick up bread at that bakery I like before she comes home and she agrees.

When she arrives, I pull her into a hug and she pushes me away grumpily. She’s nothing like me, this girl. I’m normal person who needs very little to be happy. What she needs to be happy however is always changing. This year, she’s decided she needs me.

I grab her wrist as she tries to leave and wrap her in my arms successfully. This time, she smiles but doesn’t laugh because that’s still not her.  

Later that night, I grab her phone and find his contact. His name is Roman. I laugh heartily then because it sounds like Romeo and her name is Juliette. 

When she leaves by the end of the year, I make sure to not to lose contact with her. She’s decided to move up north to experience real winters and she calls me every month. 

I move to her city eventually. She’s writing her own book, building her own house, and living with a group of friends she’s made. I’m surprised when I first set eyes on her because she’s learned how to laugh. 

By the time we are both old and gray, she will have never married and never have had any children of her own. Because she doesn’t have any parents, other people might assume that she’s on her own but that’s not true. 

She has me, my family, my friends, and my children. She has the people she has met along the way as well. She’s not alone. Sometimes I wonder whether she could have been happy without anyone just as much as she can with them.