Mind your own bussiness

As a writer I never properly understood why someone who is trying to be noticed will dress and act as if they are suspicious of a crime. Those long baggy jackets, bigger-than-your-face sunglasses, a scarf, and some ridiculous hats that someone of sane mind would never use in their day-by-day.

But here I was, sitting at my usual cafe, drinking my 3rd cup of tea of the day while enjoying my donut when I saw her coming in – a woman in her forties who fit the part perfectly. If her clothes were not suspicious enough, her very nervous behavior, surely was. 

By default, I am a ‘mind-your-own-business’ kind of guy. I stay in my line, worrying about myself and where in the world I will go get my next rent from. But she seemed to trigger a curiosity in me that I didn’t even know I had. I took my earbuds off and leaned back in my chair, ready to eavesdrop. 

I watched her sit down at the corner, a few tables from me, where a man was already there drinking what seemed like a cup of coffee. The woman sat holding her purse against her chest firmly. She took her sunglasses off and laid them on the table. 

“Hi.” The man offered her a warm smile. “Do you want something? A coffee, tea, bread?” She shook her head, 

“No thank you.” 

“Very well. Why did you call me today?”

“I think he’s suspicious.”

“Why do you say that?” 

“He’s been weirder, looking through everything. I found him on my phone yesterday, going through everything.”

“Did you delete our messages?”

“Of course!” Her voice was barely heard from where I was standing, but she still spoke quieter. I leaned backward, nearly tilting my chair, trying to hear. “… finds out.” She looked around and our eyes met. I looked down ashamed and afraid she had noticed that I was spying. 

“We’ve been careful.” I hear the tlack tlack, of the spoon hitting the side of the cup, and immediately my mind is dragged to one of those Mexican dramas that my grandmother loves watching. I can imagine someone on the outside of the coffee shop, with one of those big-as-an-arm cameras used to take pictures of wildlife and affairs. Not surprisingly, as they both seem to require the same distance and camouflage. I take a look outside as if checking. There is nothing; no parked cars right in front of the shop, no weirdly dressed guy with a huge camera. Nothing. I am somewhat disappointed. 

“I may know that in my mind, but my heart doesn’t seem to get the message.” I peek again at their table. The woman is now searching for something in her purse; her hands digging through who knows what, until she finally seems to find what she is looking for. She pulls out a keychain. The man looks at her hands, waiting for her next move but all she does is stare at the keychain.  

“Tomorrow when your husband goes to work you’ll call me and I will drive by the house.” She nods. 

“I had the key made.” With clumsy fingers, she tries to swirl the key out of the keychain and fails multiple times. She nods and chuckles nervously. “I’m sorry, it’s a bit tricky this thing.”

“It’s ok.” He holds her hands with his and looks at her. “It’s ok.” I can see her eyes begin to tear up as she nods. 

I lean forward and take a sip of my tea. I can imagine them getting together the next day, at her house which he now will have unlimited access to. The husband, unaware of his wife’s shenanigans. 

“I will go now, Rachel. But I am a phone call away, ok?” She nods again, as he pulls his hands away. The man pulls out his wallet and drops some money on the table. “I will see you tomorrow.” 

From the corner of my eye, I watch her lean her body backward, towards the wall, still unable to lessen the grip on her purse. 

I finish my bagel and tea and stare at my laptop where a blank page stares back at me. It scolds me for not minding my own business, after all, I do have an article to deliver in the next two days and have yet to start. 

I place my fingers on the keyboard and let them run loose. 

“Weird hats – why use them and where to get them.” I shake my head, deleting it fully. Why am I thinking about hats? 

I thrumble my fingers on the table annoyingly. 

I must write something. Anything. But I can’t think of what.

I find myself peeking at the woman, yet again. 

Talk about procrastination… 

Just like me, she is just there, doing nothing. The difference is – I should be doing something. Instead, I am here spying on someone I know nothing about. I find myself having an internal debate that was highly avoidable have I minding my own business from the get-go?

She seems distraught. Should I go talk to her? 

Mind your own business. 

She seems nice. I should check if she is ok. 

Stop it! You have an article to write. 

Maybe if I just go and stretch my legs… Yes, that’s a good idea. 

I get up, stretch my back, and do some hand and wrist yoga (something new age our boss had us start doing); then I decide a trip to the bathroom could be helpful. 

The fresh water on my face hits me like a wake-up call.

Ok. Time to get back to work. 

Leaving the bathroom I walk past the woman, who is now on the phone. Her voice is low as she stutters.

“I am on my way home. I will be right there.” Finishing her call I see her eyes watering again. 

“Are you ok?” This time I was too close to stop myself. She stares back at me for a minute. 

“Yes. Thank you.” I watch her get up, fixing her hair slightly with her hands, and pulling her purse to her shoulder. “I must go now. Have a nice evening.” I watch her walk past me and leave. The door closes as she disappears. 

I have no more reason to procrastinate. 

I sit back in front of my laptop, waking it up. I am tempted to open some webpages and continue on my non-writing journey, but I somehow, manage to stop myself from doing it. 

“What if we lived in a wordless world?” 

It felt like a fascinating title, although I was not yet completely sure of what I was going to write about. Maybe, if there were no words we could become more aware of the other person. We’d listen more to a truth that is not masked by words. 

Would this world have music? Seems plausible. Birds don’t have words, but they do have music. Although one could argue that there is a bird language, in which case, they do have their own ‘words’. Maybe music is a sort of language in itself. 

What about dreams?

I have many questions, which is exactly how I like to start my articles – a mess that looks like taken from a deranged mind. 

I purr my mess into words, and the page is no longer blank. 

“… In conclusion, I am fairly certain the world would be much more mysterious, and maybe, in a weird way, we could end up benefiting from it.”

Once I am done, I stretch back my arms and stare at the words in front of me. It's almost dinner time, and the cafe is nearly empty and about to close. I watch as Tina finishes cleaning some tables. I want to apologize for staying too long, but I am all out of words. I extend her an awkward smile to which she nods in acknowledgement. She still seems annoyed. 

Mondays are usually hard; you had a nice resting weekend; you were just about to feel comfortable with doing nothing and bam! You’re suddenly back to a life where there are these things called obligations and deliverables. 

With my laptop under my arm, pull up a chair and sit down in my usual spot. 

“The usual?” Tina is just as tired as I am. I nod and watch as she pours extremely hot tea into a cup. “How’s the book going?” I stare at her for a few seconds. Haven’t thought about my book in months if I am being honest. I started my book 6 years ago and am now a proud writer of exactly 27 pages of pure garbage. 

“Good. It's almost done.” Why did I say that? She smiles and I mimic her reaction; I am sure we are both aware that I am lying. “Did you get this week’s newspaper already?”

“Just go it. I’ll get it for you.” 

I open my list of tasks for the week and burn my tongue with the first sip. 

“Crap.” 

“Here it is.” Tina handles the newspaper. “Do you need anything else?” Feeling like an idiot while clearing my tongue with a paper towel I shake my head and she leaves. 

I look through the pages, trying to find the inspiration for my next piece, when I stumble on something. My skin reacts before my brain has a chance to. 

“Have you seen this woman?

Rachel Webster has been missing since Friday. If you’ve seen her or know anything…” I’d seen her; I’d spy on her and I talked to her. This was the woman with the strange hat.

I let my body sink onto the chair as reality hits me. 

She disappeared the day after I saw her. I may well have been the last person to have seen her. 

I stare at her black and white picture in the journal, wondering if there is anything I could have done that would prevent this.

Maybe I could have talked to her.

Suddenly a world without words felt terrifying,