Slice of Life

“It isn’t as if she’s in love with him.”

I paused, fingers poised on my laptop keyboard and mentally rewound the words I’d just heard spoken at a nearby table. I couldn’t possibly have heard correctly, could I?

I’d settled in so nicely at the café in my neighborhood Borders store for some concentrated writing. Just seconds before, I’d been dismayed when two very elderly women had shuffled past me with cups of coffee and painstakingly seated themselves at the table next to mine. I’d had an impression of white hair and physical infirmities and--slightly annoyed at having my space invaded, not to mention concentration interrupted--wondered why they’d chosen to sit so close to me when there were so many other empty tables to choose from. Especially when I was obviously working, not relaxing with my own coffee or a book.

If I’d created two eighty plus year-old-characters in a novel, I don’t think I’d ever think of having one of them--once they’d both settled, taking time to stir cream and sugar into their coffee--speak that first piece of opening dialogue.

“It isn’t as if she’s in love with him.”

Love the line, but the speaker doesn’t fit. Or does she?

Intrigued, I listened, although frankly hard not to unless I’d had earplugs as the woman’s voice was loud and rusty with age.

“Since he went into the hospital, she’s just worried what will happen to her now. She claims she won’t be able to cope alone. Says she’s not strong. Like us.” A sip of coffee, and the speaker continued, “Well, we did it. We learned. And so can she.”

I reached for paper and pen and began to scribble notes. The ladies went on their way, off perhaps to catch a bus back to Century Village, but leaving me to ponder about their lives. About their friend whose husband is so sick. But primarily I thought about the glimpse I’d been given into the world of a widow; the difficulties and adjustments of this transition and the sisterhood that binds them all together.

In the space of time that it takes to drink a small cup of coffee, my conscious awareness of widows altered.

It’s yet another reason why I’m enjoying my new writing environment.

Who knew life at the cafe would prove so interesting. And so much better than anything I could ever imagine.