I had come in to work earlier that day. I hadn't gotten much sleep and I was so bored I couldn't bear loitering about my apartment all day long doing nothing anymore. I needed people around or at least something to do even though more often than not I wouldn't appreciate it when I got it. It was twenty to ten when I got to the restaurant that had the low self-respect to employ me. It was rather chilly outside but I preferred it to the scorching days of summer I was handed all the previous weeks. It was sunny, yes, but the tall buildings downtown provided plenty of shade and there was a soft wind caressing my skinny figure as I inelegantly, definitely unattractively, and most assuredly hunchedly rested against the wall of the establishment next to the restaurant. Of course God forbid I would start my shift earlier than I had to so there I was again back out, in my waitering attire, to smoke one single cigarette, I had thought. During my third one, all welded together, a couple, a man and a woman, went by.
“Good day,” the man wished me as he caught my unreserved glance at them. They went inside and I stepped on my cigarette butt that I had dropped on the pavement and followed them inside as it was already ten o'clock.
I went to the counter and I didn't say anything as I dully bent over it on my elbow reluctant to start my shift. The one responsible with the coffee at the bar, Paul, an apathetic young man with a bad hairdo and pimples all around, who constantly disapproved anything really, nodded towards the table where the two from before, the woman and the greet-happy man, had seated themselves. I went there and stopped by the table.
“Hello,” I said.
“Good morning,” they said as they forced smiles onto their faces.
“What will it be then?”
“Well,” he said. “We were actually thinking we'd have a bite to eat.”
Great. An innovator, this one.
“Yes?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “How's the burgers here?”
“Well they have bread,” I said to which they smirked. “A good choice of sauces too,” to which I pointed at the enumeration of names written in a font size for ants surely. “Do you want one?”
“Sounds good,” he said. “We'll have two.”
“Yeah, we're only serving those after eleven.”
“Oh. What else is good then?” he asked.
“I personally like the Shanghai chicken,” I started.
“Oh yes, two of those then!”
“...but we're out of those,” I continued.
“You know what?” he said having given up. “Just bring us two coffees.”
“Any preference?” I asked.
“Surprise us,” the woman intervened.
I went back to the counter and told Paul who of course acted like he was doing me this great favour just by listening to what the two had ordered. I said 'two coffees, black, no sugar.' He poured them into two plain cups sighing so loud as though he had something in his throat, put them on a tray and pushed it towards me. I went back to the two.
“Here's your coffee,” I said as I took the little saucer with the cup and put it in front of the woman. “Black, no sugar. And here is yours,” I turned to the man. “Black.”
“No sugar?” he asked.
“No sugar,” I said.
I wasn't expecting a tip. I went around the counter to the coffee machine.
“What are you doing?” asked Paul with a sense of entitlement.
“What does it look like?” I said as I poured coffee from the machine in a plastic cup.
“You know you're not supposed to do that,” he said in an angered high pitch.
“Oh, just shut up already,” I said as I went back to the other side of the counter and had a seat at the bar.
“So,” I heard the woman say. “Have you given any thought to it?” she asked the man.
He didn't answer at first.
“Yes,” he said.
She looked at him with an obviously mimicked compassionate look on her face. I sipped the coffee.
“Look, I know it's hard,” she said. “But you know it's the best course of action for the both of us.”
“Is it really?” he asked with a faint, poorly concealed tone of desperation in his voice.
“Come on, Steve,” she said blatantly and suddenly unaffectionate.
“Don't 'come on, Steve' me, Clara,” he quickly replied louder than he had intended. “How are you so content with simply ending this without fighting for it?” he asked in a more hushed manner.
“You know how and why,” she said.
“Yes,” he said scoffing. “Good old George!” he rolled his eyes.
“Leave it alone, Steve.”
“How am I supposed to, damn it?” he said angrily.
“Just like that,” she replied calmly. “Accept the divorce.”
“I will not.”
“Why?” she pleaded. “Don't you understand I don't love you?”
“But you did once,” he argued.
“Maybe. But that's over,” she tried to reason with him.
“Perhaps for you,” he said so passionately that it made me choke on my coffee for I'd found it amusing for some obscure reason. “I still love you,” he delivered.
I took a cloth and tried to wipe the coffee stains off my apron.
“Don't be daft,” she said looking away. “It has to be both ways, doesn't it?”
“The divorce has to as well,” he said leaning backwards against the backrest. Well played, man. Well played.
I went to the bathroom to sort out my drinking accident and I instead ended up in a stall taking out my flask. I had whiskey in it and it would provide me with the necessary buzz to get through the day. I went back out.
“You have coffee on-”
“Shut up, Paul.”
I got back in place at the bar and recovered my plastic cup.
“Let's go back to our home and talk,” the man said.
“No, Steve, darling,” she said exasperated. “It's not happening.”
“But why,” he said quite pathetically, I might add. “You know deep down that we can sort all this out.”
She looked up at him.
“And not by a divorce,” he quickly added and he slid the brown A4 envelope back towards her.
It didn't look like it was the reaction he had hoped for but she got up with a straight face and put her jacket on.
Marriage is hard, I reckon. I've not been married myself, but my parents had divorced when I was a child. I'm not saying it was hard on me, though it was. It was hard for my parents, more and mainly for my mother. She had to deal with the aftermath all while taking care of me. It's really wicked when the person that you love just picks up and leaves. She had to let go and was forced to face the facts. Then there was me and she sort of found an outlet through me, piecing herself together through the prism of how I would have felt. I picked up on that but I didn't say much about it. I was just there for her. For poor old Steve on the other hand it didn't seem as though he had any children. That there weren't any complications; that he would just be able to start over again. That would be the upside. He had friends, I thought; he could cope I hoped. I empathised with him. Although the more it hurts when you lose somebody you had feelings for, the more it lets you know that you love. Not loved, but love. That is what love is, I've come to think. The shitty feeling you have when it ends. Even if you lost it, you know you're capable of it. And who's to say it won't happen again?
“Good bye, Steve,” she said.
He didn't reply and she wouldn't wait for him to do so. He was looking at the empty chair and it looked like a fugue state for a second. He put his palms on his face and strongly exhaled as he let them slide off and collapsed on his arms that he mindlessly positioned on the table just in time to catch his freefalling head, though I didn't think he cared. He confined himself to looking at the floor. The man was in shambles. I quietly reached for the coffee carafe and approached the table. His sugar had just left, it wouldn't have done without at least an Irish variation this time.
“Need a refill on that, mate?” I asked.