Sun rays filtered through the window of a small café creating patches of light that partnered with a watch crystal to dance across the vivid eggplant hues covering each table. With each wrist movement, a beam would flicker to the ceiling and then return with feathery lightness to the textured cloth. Neither woman took notice of the illumination as they chatted.
“I love these tablecloths,” Jill observed to her friend. “I wonder where she purchased the material.”
“How do you know the owner is a she?” Melanie smiled over her menu.
Jill could not see her friend’s eyes because the reflected sunlight caused an alien sheen on the lenses.
Melanie turned her head, “Let’s ask the waitress to lower the blind.”
“Ok. When she comes over to the table, I’m going to ask about the tablecloths,” Jill commented.
The two women had remained in contact since high school. From time to time (often years shading this chronology before they would next intertwine) they would meet. But, after a period, life demands would pull them in different directions and the dearth between them would settle in. On this morning, like actors from an old play (an art form that they had participated in as teens), they met, the café their set, both of them furtively wondering …why. Why did they continually feel compelled to settle something between them?
Jill turned transferring the shaft of light to the wall just as the waitress simultaneously walked toward them from stage right (kitchen) with tablet in hand to take their order.
“Hi. How are you both today?”
Dutiful smiles exchanged between them. The glimmer flitted back to the rich purple covering. After closing the blind, the server returned.
“I was wondering,” Jill commented, “Did the owner make the table cloths?”
“I’m not sure; I’ll go ask her,” the young woman was gone as quickly as she had materialized.
Jill could not resist, “Sometimes I simply sense things,” she stated as if confirmation was needed.
“Really?” Melanie’s tone slid up at the question mark.
Was she teasing? Jill studied the menu.
Scooting her chair back from the table, hoping to feel more comfortable, Melanie noticed the pies in a display case. “Did you see their baked goods? They look yummy,” She pulled at her sweater that had inched up over her stomach as she studied the presentation.
Jill paused, and glanced away from the selections offered in print to scrutinize the glass enclosed offerings. She closed her menu as their server returned.
“Yes, she made the tablecloths.”
“They are beautiful; unique,” Jill said. “Thank you for asking.”
“May I get you both a coffee?”
“Definitely.” Ceramic mugs appeared balanced on matching saucers.
“How is the baked oatmeal? I have always wanted to try it,” Melanie asked.
“We are known for it … baked with cream and brown sugar. Quite delicious.”
Both women shifted back slightly, as the server poured hot liquid into the cups. A whiff of dark roasted coffee beans steamed from the rims to mix with baked goods and the distinct aroma of bacon grilling in the kitchen. Setting the carafe on the table the waitress continued, “Yes, she made the tablecloths. The fabric came from a local store.”
“I love the color,” Jill commented letting her fingers admire the texture of the weave. “Nice feel to the material.”
After placing their orders, the two women let the silence sit between them. Jill noticed that only a few customers inhabited the place, perhaps only ten tables in the entire restaurant. Their late morning start was good; they would be able to stay and visit without feeling rushed by other customers waiting to be seated. Jill’s preference would be to sit outside on a day like this one but the cozy atmosphere was right filling her with a pleasant feeling.
“Are you going to the class reunion?” She asked.
“I don’t know; I don’t think so.”
“I want to go,” Jill continued, “but, since they had me on the missing list, I just received my invitation. I’m going to have to rearrange a couple of things; I was supposed to be at the cottage this next weekend. I’m having some repairs done and I have waited all summer for the carpenter to be available. Seeing my name on the list of missing classmates was weird. I am assuming that you let Melinda know my address?”
“No, it wasn’t me.”
She leaned toward her friend, “There were fifteen people on the deceased list…Chrissie Bauman, Janice Murrel, Tom Tillman. I don’t even know what happened to them. Chrissie and I kept in contact through Christmas cards but lost touch over the last few years. Last year, I sent her a card and it came back. I meant to follow up but didn’t do it. Seeing her name stopped me cold; I feel sad. Who were these people and did they achieve what they fantasized about in high school?”
“Who does? What about your aspirations?” Melanie’s voice was soft, her gaze steady now that the brightness was dimmed by the window blind.
“I have issues,” Jill picked up her cup for a sip. “I have rewritten my horse story in every voice – the female protagonist, the male voice, third person … I am writing in a circle and I am sick of it. I don’t even care about the characters anymore; a creative door seems to be locked.”
“Do you know that we always end up talking about writing? Perhaps, we could encourage each other?”
“I would love to do that; my most productive writing happened ten years ago when you, Tim and I met in our writer’s group.”
“I don’t want Tim; he brings a dimension to the discussion that is stifling for me,” Melanie’s tone firm. She stirred in her seat before adding, “And, do you know that you are different when he is around?”
Jill paused. What … different? Inside she felt hurt but hid this in her response,
“You know, I have difficulty being relaxed with men.”
“Connie is the same; when men are in the room another light turns on and the tone of the conversation changes. Maybe it is me that has the problem.”
“I am sure that it is not all you, Melanie. I had a deep need for approval; I think I am passed that now… I certainly hope I am. I’d like people to be around me because they are interested in my thoughts and because I am a listener of theirs. I have to admit though that I wanted to attend our reunion as a published author … that certainly has not happened.”
“I don’t want to go to the reunion because I have gained so much weight.”
A portion of baked oatmeal was placed in front of Melanie along with a small white bowl of brown sugar and a petite cream pitcher.
“Does that matter now? We are old Melanie. We have all changed.”
Noises, familiar to a restaurant took over as they ate … clanging of pans, the sizzling of the griddle each sound melding with the murmur of spoken words.
After spooning in the last mouthful of breakfast, Melanie swallowed before saying,
”I think some people thought you were a slut in high school …that whole “Betty Beaver” nickname didn’t help.”
Jill internally winced – fifty eight years old and she still felt the embarrassment. As teens, during play practice, they had been fooling around on stage and a folding chair flipped over. Her already too short skirt went over her head in the process and the boys could not help but make the observation. She recalled that the redness of her cheeks canceled out the pain of landing in a heap on the hard wood. “Betty Beaver” was not one of her proudest moments. She took a breath before responding.
“I hope that by using the term “people” you are not including yourself,” The sun had slipped behind a cloud making the café momentarily darken. “Despite what may have been said about me, I was a virgin when I graduated.”
“You were?”
Again, Jill could not help but be surprised at this question.
“My first intimate relationship was when I was eighteen. In fact, I felt great guilt, the church had imprinted the idea that if I had sex, I had to marry the person or god would sweep down and damn me to hell for eternity.”
“For me too,” Melanie reflected. “Tim was my first and the thought that I may have crossed some cosmic line of damnation, kept me with him. When I look back at pictures of myself, I did not know that I was cute. I always saw a dumpy, shy girl.”
Coffee was offered again.
Jill took a sip and wanting to be kind said, “You really opened up in your senior year.”
“I didn’t see myself that way. I heard that I was only a few votes from making the homecoming court.”
Jill paused; was that a hurt directed at her? She had not thought about high school in years … for goodness sake, Melanie was actually talking about the homecoming court?
She answered carefully, “You are probably right; perhaps, I only made queen’s court by a small margin.” She noted that Melanie did not correct her; she did not say, “Oh no. I don’t mean you.”
“No calorie watch today,” Melanie commented looking again toward the confection display.
The oatmeal was hearty, delicious, comforting but Melanie decided that when she left she would purchase one of the frosted cinnamon rolls to go.
Turning back to Jill she asked, “Did your stepfather?” her eyebrows raised with the question.
“No. He was a jerk but no,” Jill countered. The question surprised her.
“I always wondered,” Melanie said.
The silence that ensued seemed as real to Jill as if another person sat with her. The conversation turned mundane as they finished what was to be their last breakfast meeting. Jill had a distinct knowing that she did not want to work on her writing with her friend ... with Melanie. Oatmeal bowls were cleared. Empty ceramic mugs were pushed aside.
The silence that ensued seemed as real to Jill as if another person sat with her. The conversation turned mundane as they finished what was to be their last breakfast meeting. Jill had a distinct knowing that she did not want to work on her writing with her friend ... with Melanie. Oatmeal bowls were cleared. Empty ceramic mugs were pushed aside.
Outside the coffee shop (exit stage left), an invisible shell had crackled, shattering to nothing. With this awareness came a thought, I can write. It had been Tim that had encouraged her when the three of them had worked together. Melanie had always found fault with her work.
“What about getting together again to discuss our writing,” Melanie asked.
“Well, I will try,” Jill said. “Good bye Melanie.”
The hug was sincere from Jill … this would be goodbye.
She would write for herself. And, she would write without the help of Melanie.
Walking across the parking lot, Jill was aware that she no longer wanted to try to be nice. Inside her car, the crystal on her wrist reflected a sunlit ray causing a faceted burst of color to shimmer over the taupe roof liner. How exquisite, she noted.
