I WATCHED the tall one arrive first. My wife was collecting our drinks and making her way back to our table.
“Shh,” I said as she sat down and tried to talk to me.
“Oh, not again,” she mumbled as she looked over her shoulder to see where my eyes were. She was all too used to this by now. Fifty years of marriage and I still think she was waiting for me to change my ways.
A lady in a red coat joined the tall one at her table. They greeted each other and immediately delved into conversation. A little while later, red coat jumped from her seat and approached a woman with auburn hair. She was in the queue and waiting to be served. A smile lit up her face as she said hello to red coat. I couldn’t quite hear them from where I was sat, but I watched them keenly and followed their body language. They seemed to know each other well; there was no awkwardness or small talk. They seemed completely oblivious to the rest of the café, whatever was going on around didn’t shake them. They were in their own bubble and seemed happy enough there. I admired and envied their ability to do this as I watched all three settle at their table.
I heard one of them shout, “your eye twitched!” The one whose eye apparently twitched looked caught out as her friends looked at her. What was that about? The eye-twitcher seemed a bit shocked, like she had been caught naked or on the toilet. Exposed. It made me reflect on my own friendships, were we ever this close? I didn’t have long as my wife’s dulcet tones brought me out of my thoughts and into the present.
“Nigel,” my wife shouted at me.
“What’s so important?” I replied.
“Your tea is getting cold,” How many times have I heard that line?
“Sorry Deidre,” I murmured. She continued to waffle on, about what, I don’t know. My eyes went back to the trio. They were still there and I really couldn’t keep my eyes off of them. They looked very ordinary and they were very ordinary. But their friendships, their bonds, they were beautiful. Yet, I couldn’t tell you why, it was just a feeling. Deidre looked at me with irritation; I knew that look all too well. She looked over to the group to see what all the fuss was about. She was nowhere near as interested in people and human nature as I was, but I could see she was captured by them too. Well, perhaps not fully, but for her, that was a real interest.
I twisted my wedding ring round my finger and looked at my wife. I really looked at her. Her face was as aged as my own.
“How do you think they know each other?” I asked Deidre.
She replied, “Well, by the looks of it, I’d say it was a long time, what’s so special about them?”
“I miss my friends, I think that’s it.” I turned away from the women and felt a sadness overcome me. I pressed my lips together in a feeble attempt to stop the emotion from flooding out. I realised that I didn’t have those kind of friendships anymore. Did I ever? Memory was a funny thing, is it normal to recall memories in a rosy daze as you get older? Is that what happens? I was fast approaching eighty, why was I comparing myself to three strangers? The absurdity of it.
“You didn’t even like your friends that much!” Deidre helpfully added.
Was that true? It’s so long ago now that I couldn’t remember either way. I mourned for those friendships, not because I felt I should do, but because there was a time when they meant something. Watching these young ladies stirred something, a feeling inside that I had forgotten existed. I desperately wanted to run over to their table and tell them, tell them what? What could I possibly say to these women that wouldn’t result in hysterical laughter? Oh, but I so wanted to go over, I had to sit on my hands to stop the urge. I’d tell them to treasure these times, to not take wholesome friendships for granted, that they wouldn’t always exist as a given in their lives. I looked back over and smiled at red coat.
****
I take off my red coat as I sit down at the table. I’m a bit flustered from rushing and take a beat to calm down. Sophie has arrived before me and is seated at a table in the corner.
“Sorry I’m late,” I say to Sophie.
Sophie smiles and replies, “You’re not!”
We laugh and start chatting like we always do.
I look over to an old man and his wife. Well, I assume it’s his wife, maybe it’s his mistress! Now, why is that so funny?! The couple aren’t really talking, but not in an awkward way, in a comfortable, at ease way. I look at them for a bit longer and wonder how happy their marriage is. Being old and still together didn’t automatically equate to a happy marriage. Perhaps they are just friends or a couple who were childhood sweethearts or maybe they re-connected in their vintage years. I look at Sophie. She’s a good friend; we know each other so well. They are easy friendships, comforting, like a warm drink in the winter. There is no need to wear a mask here or explain things. Nine times out of ten, they had been there and were part of the journey.
I spot Alice in the queue, her bright red hair always makes her easy to spot. I get up and hug her; we chat for a bit while we wait for her coffee.
The café is hot and busy and I can feel my face starting to burn red in the warmth. The three of us are all sat at the table now. Like most people, my friends are talking about weight loss injections. Alice asks me what I think. I throw in a neutral sounding comment and focus my attention again on the elderly couple.
Don’t we all listen to each other’s conversations in cafes and restaurants, on a train platform or a plane? Why are some people so at ease with their whole life story being aired for all to hear? Then there’s others who whisper in hushed tones, conscious of the people around them. The assumptions and stories we create for them, the side eye or the outrageous thing they have just said, causing you to look up and see the horror in people’s faces. When you are part of an awkward silence, waiting for someone to say something to clear those awful words that are just hanging there. Time is at a standstill and no one makes eye contact.
What bonds us all? Is it our desire to love and be loved? The old couple don’t look unhappy, but they don’t look particularly happy either. Is that to be expected? It looks as if she’s talking to him and that he isn’t really listening, or perhaps he has something on his mind. He looks over and smiles at me. I’m caught off guard by this, but manage a strained smile back.
Alice follows my eyeline and turns round to look at them.
“What do you think it’s like being married for so long?” she asks me.
“I can’t even begin to imagine,” I reply, looking but looking past them as I think about that long stretch of time and what it would be like.
I suddenly become aware that a woman in the café is standing up and shouting in a foreign language. Immediately, I can hear the fear in her voice. She looks panicked and upset and is looking around the café. Everyone just stares at her; several young ones get their phones out and start filming.
She repeats herself, over and over again in her own language. She makes an action with her hand that looks like stabbing. People in the café look at each other bewildered. Everyone in the café is staring at the woman, unable to help her as they don’t understand what she is saying.
I feel powerless and frustrated, why aren’t we able to help this woman? Of all the people in this café, surely one of us must understand what she is saying? I look at my friends faces, they mirror my own, etched with confusion and concern.
I look at the teenagers filming. How is this helpful? Why do young people do this? It feels like young people are only able to experience life through their phones. If it hasn’t been photographed or filmed, it hasn’t happened in their eyes.
I and the rest of the café eventually divert our attention to the other person on this lady’s table. He’s a young lad and it looks like he’s struggling to breathe, there’s a croissant in front of him that’s barely been touched. A middle-aged lady with long, frizzy hair announces that she is a doctor and runs over to help the boy.
This all happens so quickly that it is almost over before it began. I realise I have been holding my breath whilst watching events unfold. I look over to the old couple. The old man isn’t there, he’s gone. The old lady is sitting there alone. I’m just about to tell my friends when I see him come out of the men’s toilets. He has missed this whole scene. I watch his face as he hears the frantic woman shouting to the doctor who is trying to help. I think that his face will reflect the same expression worn by all of us, but it doesn’t. He understands her, I am sure of it. I watch him approach the woman and converse with her. It looks like he is speaking to the woman in her language. Relief spreads across the woman’s face as the old man shouts out that they need an epi-pen. All eyes go to the boy; it immediately becomes obvious that he is struggling to breathe and in the middle of an anaphylactic reaction. A young woman on the table next to us tips her handbag upside down. She grabs what looks like a clear tube about the length of a pencil and passes it to the woman. She then injects it into the leg of the boy.
At some point the ambulance arrives and the boy looks to be OK. The café once again returns to normality and the chattering commences. I see the old man return to his wife. I watch as they hug the way that old married couples do. I can see that he has teared up. I can’t quite put my finger on which emotion I can see on his face. His face has changed drastically from when I first started watching him. He looks content now, at peace, like he matters. That’s it, he looks alive again. I become aware that I am watching a private moment between them and I’m about to look away, but before I do, he looks up and we hold eye contact.
I smile at him, a proper smile this time. He returns the smile and I think, yes, he’s found his place in the world again, everything will be OK.
