I’m sitting next to a woman at my local coffeeshop. I’m trying to write, but it’s a little hard to stop looking over at her. She’s dressed in a long brown bathrobe, hair pulled back in a tight bun. She shuffles in her black slippers. She has a box in front of her with no lid, which seems to hold a bunch of files. She is madly organizing when I arrive.
When I look over, I see that they are not files—they are napkins. Napkins from various restaurants, all organized by color. She has also used coffee stirrers as file labels. The box that holds them says “Good taste is NOT an option.”
Now she’s on her cell phone, yelling at some poor customer service rep about something she received in the mail. Her husband or boyfriend sits patiently across from her, dressed in pants and button-down shirt, trying to calm her down and take her home. She isn’t having any of it.
I wonder about their story as I watch this scene unfold. They are still together. She is one slice short of a loaf. Okay, maybe a few. And I think, are some people more empathetic? It takes a strong person to be around someone who’s not well. I consider myself empathetic, but I couldn’t imagine doing that. Or does it have more to do with guilt? Have they been together so long that now he feels as though it’s his responsibility to take care of her?
I’m watching her sort and resort her napkins, and realize she has another bag below that has a collection of coffee cups. Paper cups. I wonder what her house looks like. No, she is not homeless, or car-less, or even phone-less. This much I can tell. I imagine there are piles of old newspapers lying in heaps in every corner, mold gathering in long-forgotten coffee mugs, trash wadded up and left in bags around the kitchen sink. Hoarders has taught me a few things. Maybe she even has some starving cats.
I watch as he takes her arm and escorts her towards the car. He comes back for the box, and she follows him, demanding that she has important work to do and he should leave her alone. He walks over to a nearby chair and waits patiently, like he’s been doing for the last couple of hours. She goes back to her sorting.
I am moved by his patience. I’m also weary that someday, I…any of us…could lose it, and then what? Would there be somebody with the patience to take care of us? Would I be able to care for my husband in such a state, or him for me? Of course, these aren’t the things you concentrate on when you embark on a relationship…you think about the future, your happiness, whether or not you want a family. You don’t think about the other person going crazy. That’s asking for trouble.
I watch as he comes back for her, gently persuading her to come home. She nods, gathering her things and shuffling towards the back door. I wonder what will become of them. In a strange way, I’m routing for love.
About Kelly Seal
Kelly is a freelance writer based in Los Angeles, CA. She blogs about dating, relationships, personal growth and what "healthy living" means to her. You can follow her on Google+, Twitter @kellyseal or through her website www.kellyseal.com.
you have described the entire scene really good.i enjoyed reading the article.i guess you should try your hands on Screenplay writing now.Because i think you really good at describing scenes.
Profoundly beautiful desciption and insight!!
What a beautiful story. I’m with you – routing for love.