An Unexpected Dinner

An Unexpected Dinner

I can’t help but eavesdrop when I hear the word “f**k” one too many times. My ears are like radars, tuning in to a frequency. Especially when a woman is saying something to her male companion at a dinner table in a restaurant and the predominant word is f**k, f*****g, f**k you. Her voice hisses at him, rising and falling with her breath. I surreptitiously glance behind me, hoping to catch a glimpse of the arguing couple.  They are at the table right behind me. As I look around, I noticed other people in the restaurant sneaking glances at them and a few outright stares. Even my companion is having difficulty focusing on our conversation as she keeps looking at them. We are fascinated by them.

            While I work to keep my attention on my own dinner companion, my thoughts continually stray their way. My first impression is what an odd couple, strikingly different in so many ways. He is HUGE! He sits tall, seems at least 400 pounds, with his belly hanging over the table and chair. His clothes are sloppy and all gray. Everything about him is washed out and drab, as though he doesn’t care about his appearance. He weighs the table down with both his elbows as he shovels in mouthfuls of cheesecake without seeming to take a breath.  She, on the other hand, is intriguing. She has flowing black curls, honey mocha skin, and sensuous curves. She is as short as he is tall, chomping loudly on her food and swishing back Buds. Her iPhone is on the table, blasting music into her earbuds as she tunes her companion out except to occasionally turn and hiss at him again.

            I strain to make out the words of the conversation, but the whole escapes me. It is only a smattering here and there of broken sounds, punctuated by the ever present “f**k.” Her voice is grating, whiney and accusing. As I listen to her mumblings, I find myself irritated by her voice and wanting to slap her around putting her in her place. I feel bad for the oaf as she raises her voice and I catch the words, “cheating,” “f*****g,” “You’re a disgrace,” and “gross.” Did he cheat on her? Who would actually cheat on her with HIM? Look at him. Mousy brown hair, scraggly goatee, downcast eyes, folds of chins and fat. I chastise myself for my rude thoughts, knowing that I’m no skinny chick either.

 As I glance again, for the thousandth time, I see the sadness in his eyes. I can feel the tension emanating from their table. She is haughty, proud, and ignoring him as a waste of her time. He keeps shoveling in the food and I wonder, maybe he’s emotionally eating. I would if I was him. I can see how she would drive him to it. I sympathize with the man-boy who looks lost and worn and asking myself why, when apparently he cheated on her. Shouldn’t I be cheering her on? Yet, he constantly denies the accusations. I can hear his voice clearly over hers, firmly, but plaintively denying, “No,” “You’re wrong,” “Why don’t you believe me?” The brokenness gets to me. I want to turn around and hug him and then haul off and punch her. Doesn’t she see what she’s doing to him? Tearing him down until he’s nothing but a pile of fat and blubber, eating until his body can’t take it anymore? Trying to escape the piercing pain of her words?

Suddenly, she’s louder, cursing him out big time. The waiter comes and goes, settling their bill, but I can tell he’s uncomfortable and flustered. They’re paying separate bills. A couple, but each pays for their own? Maybe they are just friends turned bitter or arguing about a mutual friend and I misunderstood their words. Eavesdropping isn’t foolproof, you know. Have you ever played the gossip game? Where a message is passed down a line through whispers in an ear and the last person is to repeat what they think the message was? Almost every time it’s wrong.

Everyone turns to stare and whisper. She throws something on the table and stomps off, leaving the restaurant. You can feel a collective sadness and pity for him from the other patrons, looking away to avoid his shame. It’s finally silent behind me, no hissing, sputtering, or “f**k.” For a few minutes, it is easier to concentrate on my own conversation and push them out of my mind. I notice my companion’s eyes keep sliding his way, her brow furrowed and eyes searching. I raise an eyebrow, a silent question. I can see her concern for him as she cares for those who are hurting. It’s her nature and her profession, to treat the souls of those in pain.

She leans forward, trying to whisper and not be noticed that she’s talking about him to me. Apparently, the woman threw her wedding rings on the table before she stomped off. They’re married?! I never suspected that one. They’re so…opposite! He’s now putting the rings on a dog tag chain that he is wearing around his neck. I can hear the faint clinking, like a hairline crack forming in a piece of ice. Or maybe it’s the sound of his heart that I hear, breaking into fine pieces as he picks up what’s left of his marriage off the table.

I still can’t believe it. I never thought they were married of all things. I guessed maybe dating, but I felt even that was stretching it. But then I have to ask myself why I think that it isn’t possible for a big, fat man to be in love with a short, beautiful woman? Why is that so odd? Maybe it’s my own self-perceptions getting in the way, my own low self-esteem and rejection. It bothers me that I share his pain, his heartache, over his looks and the way she treated him. It strikes too close to home and I’m disconcerted by it.

I can hear him standing, slowly, like he’s wearing weights around his neck and is struggling to lift them up. He walks by me and out the door of the restaurant into the mall. I gaze after him and then proceed to put him in the back of my mind. I want to finish my dinner in peace, sharing a good time with a special companion. She can’t stop talking about them. It’s like I’m watching an episode of Dr. Phil, analyzing their relationship every which way. I’ve had enough and I tell her to stop, leave it alone, let’s talk about something else. She pauses, gazes thoughtfully at me, and then changes subjects. Whew. We laugh with the waiter and consume our cupcake dessert, eager to head home because it’s getting late.

We walk the mall to get to the exit by our car, watching the stores roll their caged doors down to the floor, covering up the jewelry displays with dark cloths, and sweeping and straightening of racks from shoppers. It’s closing time. Everyone’s headed home for the night. I spot him sitting forlornly on a bench by the exit. He’s staring at the floor and absentmindedly peeling the label off a soda bottle. An air of desolation and loss surrounds him. We slowly walk by, and I catch a wink of light on his chest. There hangs the diamond and platinum band from a dirty silver chain around his neck, so out of sorts with the frumpy man who wears it. He seems so alone and I wish there was something I could do for him. Instead, we shift our gaze away and continue our walk towards the doors.

I hear him clumsily stand and start walking behind us. I wonder if he has a way home. I hope she didn’t leave him here! Maybe he called someone and was waiting for a ride. Or maybe he is going to walk home now, although the heat is sweltering outside. He’d never make it with all that weight he has to carry. A tingle of shame hits my conscious for thinking it, but I push it aside. It’s stating fact, right? He is overweight, massively overweight. It’s obvious to everyone, not just me. It isn’t just me.

We all exit the doors. We turn right and he heads straight on toward the parking lot. There’s a car farther down. Someone is sitting in it with the door propped open and I realize it’s her. He’s headed to the car and she’s waiting for him in the heat. His shoulders are slumped and he walks with the posture of a man defeated. I sigh, wondering if they will make it, if they will survive. Will they reconcile? Is this a normal pattern for them? Will she continually berate and accuse him and he will always deny it? Will he continue to stuff his face and body, burying his emotions until his body gives out? Or is this something else entirely? Did they argue in public on purpose? Was it all a game to them? I suspect not as the dejectedness is very real in him as he approaches the car. I turn away to get in my own car to head home.  I realize that I will never know as I leave them behind for my own companion, wondering if I’ll survive.

Author's Note

Entered in a contest with Laurel House Creative Workshops. Didn't win, but got an excellent review/critique. Will repost later with the critique changes. This is the original version.

Reviews

[Crow]

A wonderfully written work, I was intriqued, my human nature was peaked, and I felt as though I was there glancing over and listening.

An excellent piece!

[Deanna Ballard]

Is there more or is this a short story?

[EMF]

Wonderful. This is a scene I know so well. So many overheard conversations, and sometimes they draw you in and you just can't help yourself from becoming a part of it. Such a wonderful write, creating a depth of scene that makes the reader think they are there with you. Everything from the waiter, to cheesecake. Everything working in perfect harmony. A great write, and well worth every second it took to read.

[Jibey]

You create a vivid and telling scenario, with wonderful detail and a capture of the mystery of these two, with their enigmatic relationship and above all, the sadness of the big man