Lunch

Lunch arrives

A nap would be more welcome.
A new face greets me in the lunch room.  It is an eager one. 
I look away longing for the familiar and the quiet. 
The new eager face wants to talk.
The kinder person at our table for two invites her to join us.
The face seeks an audience and with no prompting begins to talk.

" What do you think the weather is going to do?" she opens.

We each politely reply with words of little consequence.

"I remember the year my son was born.  It was 1993.  It rained and rained that summer.  I hope this summer is not like that one.  It was awful.  It rains too much here any way. . . ."

I lose interest.  My attention finds a new focus. 
Soon, I realize that I have no idea what the eager face beside me is saying. 
I tune back in.
A finger attached to a hand, attached to an arm extends half way across the table.
It points directly at a piece of  cake.

"You've got cake for lunch" she says.
"Yes," the kind one replies, "I got it at Winco."

"My son went to Winco to buy cat and dog food for me. . .My dogs love cat food.  My cats shouldn't eat dog food but my dogs love cat food.  It's like doggies hor d'ouevres."

The eager face says all this without taking a breath.
Only this last sentence is remotely interesting to me.  I tell my mind, "Run."
It does.
The screen door slams shut as it leaves. 
I'm young again.  It's summer.
The shouts of cousins filter through the hot summer air.
We're at Grandma's.
We run from the house in just the right intervals to keep the screen door constantly slamming for several minutes.
I hear Grandma's laugh.
She stands in the kitchen in familiar dress and apron with a dish towel in her hands.
Her tight white curls frame her face, like a soft, fuzzy halo.
Her smile lights up the world.
I smell freshly baked bread.
My day dream is clouded by a feeling of loss.
Inside, I hear myself say, "I miss you, still, Gram. . . after all these years."

But, I am at lunch.

The woman beside me speaks still.

"I used to fly for my job.  I didn't like to fly but I had to fly all the time.  Sometimes flight attendants break their necks during turbulence.  You'd think they'd be smart enough to sit down and put on their seat belts.  You should always wear a seat belt, you know.  I always do."

It's no wonder my mind keeps wandering off. 
Can you blame it?

I look at her face for the first time.
I'd hoped that by avoiding eye contact I could some how quiet the rush of words pouring from her mouth.
Lack of eye contact has no impact on the flood of words.
Bits and pieces of sentences float along a swollen river of sound.
So too, do old memories.
I see her mouth moving but hear not.
I watch her.
She can't read body language, or faces, or eyes, at least not very well.
I pity her.
Pictures of broken-necked flight attendants float in my head.
I pity myself.

I look down to the apple I'm eating.

Time seems to stand still.
I begin to plot an escape but discard the plan.
I can't leave the kind one alone to face the torrent.
Suddenly almost in mid sentence, the talker rises and says, "I've got to go."
She moves awkwardly out the door.
That quickly she is gone.

I look at my companion and say, "She sure enjoys talking."
She smiles and nods vigorously.  Her words, however, are tired and resigned.
"Yes, she does" she says.
We exhale at the same time and enjoy a minute of silence. . . before the bell.

Lunch is over.