Sunday's Post

I missed the parade, though I did hear the blasts of air horns and such while standing outside the library. The thing is that I left my knit cap back at the place, and so wussed out on account of the cold.

They were meeting for lunch, Kim and Oliver, a late breafast, actually, after morning meetings. Both found it necessary to give elaborate accounts of the morning's events: recalcitrant distributors, balky clients, less than reassuring news out of Wall Street. By the end of the first coffee, they had begun to relax into the familiar rhythms of speech and company. They had chosen a cafe less for the food (though it was generally good, the soup specially) but for the atmosphere. The talk veered toward kids and spouses, plans for the long Thanksgiving weekend, birthdays and books. The bowls of savory soup and the half-sandwiches drew them in even closer. The morning had become a dim aggravation, fading fast.
Even before he had washed down the last of the sandwich with cool coffee, Oliver became aware of the woman. The first thing he noticed about her was her hair. Silvery gray and pushed out from her head and onto her shoulders in a brilliant mass of curls. It seemed like a physical approximation of an aura. Oliver didn't believe in auras, though he did believe in the woman. Kim had another meeting a two. Oliver had the afternoon free except for a staff meeting at three-thirty. He thanked Kim for a wonderful lunch. Kim suggested that they should have lunch like this more often. They embraced and promised to get together once the craziness of the holdays was over.
After Kim had gone, Oliver went up and bought a second cup of coffee. The woman with the silver curls was there yet, and he was facinated. She dressed not like a teenager or a twenty-something, but with the same go-for-broke urgency. She wore no make up. Except maybe a little lip gloss. He couldn't be sure. He estimated that she was in her late forties, or early thirties. Oliver read an old Barrons magazine, sipped his coffee, and watched the woman from the corner of his eye. Several times, she took calls on her cell-phone, ducking outside into the bright, cool afternoon. A busy woman, Oliver thought. She was answering a call when Oliver got up to leave. He put on his coat and walked to the door. And there she was, in the corner, by the front windows, looking out from behind a small decorative tree with clear, uncompromising eyes.

Bob