No One Asked For Your Fucking Opinion, Familiar Things You Can’t Help But Analyze.
Seasoned with Ethiopian—Folk Jams.
An uncomfortable silence between the two.
I think my presence made the moment slightly more awkward. There seemed to be an unspoken understanding that there was an audience now. I tried to make it seem like I had my own thing going on, which I did, but I sat alone and gave off that I possibly could be listening. I tried hard not to get sucked in, but it felt so familiar that I could relate.
When I arrived at the pub, like I do on most days, I sat at my usual table. Today, there was a couple sitting all the way in the back, even though the seats by the open window were available for an afternoon breeze and golden hour shine. But I chose to sit between the shadows and the sun. It may have pissed them off that I didn’t give them privacy.
Honestly, I gave no fucks. It was my favorite seat at Pleasant House Pub.
The woman had her back to me. I made eye contact with the man when I sat on the picnic table-style bench, almost kissing the table they sat on. There was not enough distance to mind my own business.
Their seats faced the outdoors and the back of the pub. Mine positioned to look over to the checkout booth. The man could see the left side of my body, so If I looked over at them, he would know that I was listening to their conversation. I gave a warm, shy smile because it’s polite. He just looked at me, face dry as hell. I promised myself that I would not give myself away. The last thing I wanted was for them to tell me to mind my fucking business.
The woman sitting with the man that did not smile back at me did not want to speak. He kept trying to stir something in her. It seemed like they had a romantic thing going on once upon a time, and now platonically, he held on, but she could not bear the stage they were in.
All her unspoken wants, her deep breathing, were giving off frustration.
“Like… what do you want to talk about.”
“I mean, you asked us to meet.”
“You wanted us to catch up.”
I remember walking in her shoes, not knowing how to do the talking thing. It felt like it stung her a little. I felt the sting too. Had there been love, did she want that back?
I started to fiddle with the pages in my journal. I tried to finish a poem from another day, but it was useless. I decided to write about them.
The pies arrive, cutting the tension in the air. Then silence.
My presence may be making her uncomfortable. She doesn’t even pick at her plate. The waitress asks if everything is okay. The woman asks for to-go boxes, and the man supports this stating the obvious, “yeah, we’ll have it to go.”
He’s simply saying he wants to catch up in a tired tone.
Though she says nothing, there is a lot her lips twitch about. Her back is to me, but the moment feels like in whichever way she looks at him, he is willing to make her understand that he wants to know how she’s been— genuinely.
She combats this with a sudden parrot talk about the wrongs that homegirls have done against her. It was so abrupt. After they had gotten their boxes to pack the pie of the day, she asked for the check, and now she was sharing everything and nothing. She did not want to leave.
The waitress returns, prompting another convo you couldn’t see coming.
The woman wants to know about the playlist currently bumpin’ at the pub. I also wondered about the jams but wasn’t looking into it. I could’ve asked Siri what song was playing, but the woman needed another reason not to give the man what he wanted and to spend more time with him. So she asked about the playlist for both of us.
I get it. She wanted to spend more time there, in his presence. But she dodged every question and hit him with some shit he didn’t ask for. It would be enough for the moment.
“It’s Ethiopian-Folk,” said the waitress. I write that down.
“Yeah, I thought so. I’m Ethiopian.”
“Nice. Yeah, it’s a playlist.”
This was her escapism act. I think she liked it cuz it carried their silence and made it less complicated.
That only bought her about a minute, and then the waitress tended to a family that walked in.
Some more silence, and they get up. I keep my head down as I finished notes on their conversation. I wait to look at them until they pass the big window. They looked at me too while crossing the street, possibly to get away from my gaze. They embraced and left off somewhere between dead romance or something mildly platonic.
The atmosphere of the room was so descriptive that you can feel the weight and thickness of it. Love love love. Looking forward to more fly on the wall viewpoints like this.