When the Smoke Clears

The diner looked to have been built in the late 30s. Like so many things out here in Oklahoma, much of the construction seems vintage… for our country at least… harkening back to previous eras of thought, moments of time captured, rather than replaced by newer, less sturdy structures of uncharacterized boxes.

I came here just because of the patina, and the promise of possibly good food, though I seem usually disappointed in the mediocrity of such places. But the food here was better than most.

Finding my place in a booth, near a corner that seemed designated for recluses, I pulled out my book and settled down. In the booth next to me sat another patron, a fellow bibliophile, alone on Valentine’s Day. Her thin book characteristic of romance novels nestled inside a quilted cover made of a wolf-print fabric. The waitress had just taken up her dishes as she stretched out on the bench. Long nails of one hand picked at the empty Ghiardeli mint-creme chocolate wrapper, occasionally moving to turn a page or fuss with her gray hair.

Someone must have thought of her, though, having lunch alone on a crafted holiday, just as I was. A heart-shaped candy box rested on the table, a small card attached. But she seemed perfectly content, lost in her book and her glass of iced tea. I could relate. I was here alone, as well. She looked up for a moment, caught my eye noticing her, and smiled. I nodded back.

Only I didn’t fully understand her. We were not the same. I truly was alone, reading a book. A little while later as the laughter finally died from another crowded table in another corner of the diner, a man stood with a great deal of effort. He looked even older than she. Waving goodbye to his group of friends, he put on his ball cap and grabbed his cane. Moving slowly, painfully in our direction I could see from his hat he was a Korean war veteran. If he hadn’t been wounded there, he was certainly worn down from it, appearing to age more the closer he approached.

My fellow reader looked up from her book on his arrival. Then came the smile. They didn’t smile AT each other so much as they shared the same smile, each a part of the other’s. She deftly slid out of the booth, grabbed her box of chocolates, a token from him, and they walked out to their van. He took his time to get in as she waited, then she got in behind the wheel.

As they drove off, I recognized acutely how much I was projecting a familiarity of myself onto her, the reader in the diner alone on such a day. Instead, she was not only with someone, she was with someone she cared for so much, she made sure he made his regular fellowship with his friends, she content to be present but not participating, waiting for him to be ready to leave.

Love can be beautiful.

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