The tiny transistor he has propped up on the headrest of the seat in front of him, passenger side, rather naturally mists into a memory too soon, the forlorn wail of Chet Baker and Angel Eyes fading into crackle, static, and omnipresent conscience.
-----------------------------------------------
He watched her face for a moment, holding his finger to his mouth, perplexed. He was uncomfortable, in control of himself, as usual.....and.....not, suddenly. He rubbed the back of his neck. The hairs had begun to stand on end.
She was not terribly attractive, he decided, but ....interesting, to him: stimulating. When she turned, suddenly, to reveal a surprising swell of breast, he felt a surprise surge, and cleared his throat. Suddenly, she looked up - and straight into his face, enquiringly, the spectacles framing an amused and twinkling gaze. It was a rather unusual first connection between eyes. He knew, with complete certainty, that she knew he had an erection. She smiled at that exact instant.
She blew on her tea, comfortably, leaning back in her chair. She was tired - and completely at ease. He was not. He wanted to grab her tea, suddenly, and throw it out the window.
"Why me?", he said, at last, quietly.
"You required me", she said, softly, without a beat. Then she resumed drinking her tea, nonplussed. He didn't know what to say, next. He hadn't expected her to answer. He was still hung over.
"You're very odd", he said, relenting.
"No", she said, gently, "I just don't need anything from you. That's probably something which you are distinctly unused to, in a woman, I expect." She looked at him kindly - not patronizingly - and cocked her head slightly to one side.
"Hung over?" His face went slightly warm, and it made him annoyed. She continued.
"..."besides"....she looked at him, appraisingly, and her voice was a little softer, now..."you're very sweet."
"How do you know?" He was embarassed at blurting out something at her. He never did things like that. His cheeks were flaming, and his head began to pound out a two step.
"I"....I have no idea why I just blurted that out. I don't even know you."
She was totally unfazed. Her smile was enigmatic. Her eyes had a green glint to them, suddenly, and flashed in the afternoon sunlight of the dingy little cafe like a mild tornado warning. He felt rather lightheaded, looking at them.
"You obviously needed a response, that's all. We used to do that all the time for each other, as human beings, before the stifling constraints of social habit intruded rudely into our natural inclination to communicate." She stopped speaking, abruptly, and sipped at her tea, the statement at an end.
He felt less uncomfortable, strangely, although he wasn't sure if he was awake, suddenly. He yanked at his arm, pinching himself, hard. She watched him, curiously, raising her eyebrows as he winced at the self inflicted reality check.
"....before it became an oddity of mechanics, devoid of purpose, art, love, question, or conceit."
She paused, as he stared at her, wide awake, now. She continued.
"There is, after all, more art to medicine, than the pure science we are told results in healing. It is in the art that the healing comes. It connects to itself, in another human being: the mechanics merely provide the vehicle by which we follow instructions to proceed. We respond to that, as we allow the other "mechanics", and tools of purpose, to work on our ills, you know......" She clamped her mouth shut, sitting back, mildly, and took a long swallow of liquid, holding the cup firmly, and staring at him, interestedly, over the top of it, through her spectacles.
His mouth was slightly ajar, and his hair was sticking up, where he had run his hands through it. His headache had begun to recede. A little sound of air escaped him; a kind of laugh/breath/gush of air, as if he wasn't aggravated, wasn't disgusted - only completely unknowing, as to what to do next, rather like an apologetic fart: unnecessary, and explanatory.
"Have we met?" he blurted out, suddenly, again. "I mean..of course we've met. I just remet you. I mean...Geez, it's like Spock, or something...I ..find you...I ...don't know what I find you. Do you always speak in paragraphs, like that?"
Suddenly he turned, to find the waitress standing openmouthed behind the counter, coffee pot in mid-pour. She looked at him, earnestly, pouring his coffee carefully, in direct opposition to her hasty, urgent whisper, audible within a twenty foot range.
"Mister, she's been coming in here for months. She doesn't say a damned thing. All she does is read." She looked at the bespectacled one, apologetically. "Sorry ma'am; didn't mean to be rude." She slammed the coffee pot back on the burner, and scurried into the back of the diner. The woman with the spectacles laughed softly.
"Well, I did order."
"....before it became an oddity of mechanics, devoid of purpose, art, love, question, or conceit."
She paused, as he stared at her, wide awake, now. She continued.
"There is, after all, more art to medicine, than the pure science we are told results in healing. It is in the art that the healing comes. It connects to itself, in another human being: the mechanics merely provide the vehicle by which we follow instructions to proceed. We respond to that, as we allow the other "mechanics", and tools of purpose, to work on our ills, you know......" She clamped her mouth shut, sitting back, mildly, and took a long swallow of liquid, holding the cup firmly, and staring at him, interestedly, over the top of it, through her spectacles.
His mouth was slightly ajar, and his hair was sticking up, where he had run his hands through it. His headache had begun to recede. A little sound of air escaped him; a kind of laugh/breath/gush of air, as if he wasn't aggravated, wasn't disgusted - only completely unknowing, as to what to do next, rather like an apologetic fart: unnecessary, and explanatory.
"Have we met?" he blurted out, suddenly, again. "I mean..of course we've met. I just remet you. I mean...Geez, it's like Spock, or something...I ..find you...I ...don't know what I find you. Do you always speak in paragraphs, like that?"
Suddenly he turned, to find the waitress standing openmouthed behind the counter, coffee pot in mid-pour. She looked at him, earnestly, pouring his coffee carefully, in direct opposition to her hasty, urgent whisper, audible within a twenty foot range.
"Mister, she's been coming in here for months. She doesn't say a damned thing. All she does is read." She looked at the bespectacled one, apologetically. "Sorry ma'am; didn't mean to be rude." She slammed the coffee pot back on the burner, and scurried into the back of the diner. The woman with the spectacles laughed softly.
"Well, I did order."
He smiled at her brevity. A little grin was playing about the corner of her mouth, now. He thought she had enjoyed shocking the waitress, apparently, after all the time of being silent. He chuckled at the thought, then cleared his throat at the oddness of the moment. How the hell did he know what she thought? She was staring at the book in his hand.
"Bataille, is it? A somewhat....determined choice, if a little overt, in mixed company."
"Bataille, is it? A somewhat....determined choice, if a little overt, in mixed company."
He coughed, not realizing he had brought it in with him. Grabbing it, he started trying to shove it into his sweater - which worked out badly, unless he somehow could wedge it into his pants...and the whole gesture suddenly seemed somewhat obscene, like he had been caught masturbating in public. He yanked the book out of his pants, and his shirt pulled out. He stood up, knocked over the chair, dropped the book, bent over to pick it up, banged his head on the table, swore, tried to tuck his shirt in, and then just stood in front of her: shirt hanging out, holding his head, swearing, having ripped a hole in his favourite pullover with the staple sticking out of the frayed front cover on the book, completely aggravated, hung over, speechless, and smarting.
She began to giggle, uncharacteristically, got up from her chair, walked towards him, picked up the book, gently moved his hand from his head, kissed his face beside his left eye, where he had bashed himself, pulled up his sweater unceremoniously, stuck his shirt in his pants with her hand, pulled the sweater back down, as he stood there, shocked, smiled at him, and swung out of the cafe in a slightly halting, but determined, stride, as if she was fighting off an old injury.
He was still standing there, when the waitress walked back in.
"What's her name?" he said, finally, clearing his throat, as the waitress moved to the table where she had been sitting to clear the cup.
"I got no idea", she sighed, chomping at her gum. "Pays in cash. 'Cept she always leaves a tip, though." She winked at him, while he smoothed his hair back, and touched his hand beside his eye, suddenly.
"She'll be back next Saturday morning, for breakfast, 'bout nine".
He blew her a kiss, as he walked out the door, whistling. He'd never gone out for breakfast before; he was looking forward to it.
-----------------------------------------
......."Don't worry; be happy." The whistle was what he heard first, as he bashed his head against the door, waking to rub the side of head, the glowing green lights of the radio the only reminder of company, in the damp of the night.
"Shit", he said, softly, and laid back on the back seat, holding his head with both hands. He could still feel her lips on his face.
She began to giggle, uncharacteristically, got up from her chair, walked towards him, picked up the book, gently moved his hand from his head, kissed his face beside his left eye, where he had bashed himself, pulled up his sweater unceremoniously, stuck his shirt in his pants with her hand, pulled the sweater back down, as he stood there, shocked, smiled at him, and swung out of the cafe in a slightly halting, but determined, stride, as if she was fighting off an old injury.
He was still standing there, when the waitress walked back in.
"What's her name?" he said, finally, clearing his throat, as the waitress moved to the table where she had been sitting to clear the cup.
"I got no idea", she sighed, chomping at her gum. "Pays in cash. 'Cept she always leaves a tip, though." She winked at him, while he smoothed his hair back, and touched his hand beside his eye, suddenly.
"She'll be back next Saturday morning, for breakfast, 'bout nine".
He blew her a kiss, as he walked out the door, whistling. He'd never gone out for breakfast before; he was looking forward to it.
-----------------------------------------
......."Don't worry; be happy." The whistle was what he heard first, as he bashed his head against the door, waking to rub the side of head, the glowing green lights of the radio the only reminder of company, in the damp of the night.
"Shit", he said, softly, and laid back on the back seat, holding his head with both hands. He could still feel her lips on his face.
