The Argument

An interesting writing exercise.

The tea in front of me steams in light plumes. I watch as the fading ribbons twist and curl, rising from the cup, and then disappear. Spacing, I start to lose sight. My other senses heighten, and my mind expands, going forth. I can easily smell the pleasant aroma that my drink carries with it. I can smell everything around me. The earthy mint essence of the tea, the crisp rain outside, the warm bread now baking in the back of this cafe, the unmistakable scent of coffee beans. I can smell everyone inside, though there aren't many people. There is a small man behind me intently reading papers that he brought with him in a brown briefcase. He smells of the sea and it is a comforting smell. For some reason, he reminds me of my father. I cannot quite place why. Other than this man, there are only two other people that accompany this little place. A woman and a man. It is very easy to tell that they are not a couple, and I am not even looking at them. 

Outside, thunder makes itself known and the rain comes down harder. 

The woman smells of the sun, and a light perfume that I do not recognize. The man of soil and calligraphy ink. It covers his hands. If I were observing them, black blotches would certainly stain them, linger under his fingernails.

I can hear them talking faintly to one another, almost whispering, seeing as how there is no sound inside the cafe other than the rain. It is easy to distinguish their tones. They are in definite disagreement.

"Please, Graham, listen. I know what you're thinking," says the woman, going to continue before the man says quietly...

"You don't, Livia. Know what I'm thinking. You can't possibly know."

"But I do. Don't you understand? I'm the third party in all of this. I'm being more than objective."

"You're too close to the situation."

"Maybe. But it doesn't change the fact that I can see what this is doing. Not just to me, but to everyone. You, Polly, and Gemma." 

A deep breath, the man stays silent. The woman does not go on. I don't have to see her to know she is waiting.

The man clears his throat. His voice is even more hushed now, perhaps he is leaning over the table, wanting what comes from him next to in no way be heard. 

"Regardless, Liv. I have not asked a thing of Polly. I came to her after many years of allowing her space, privacy, sacrificing time I could have spent getting to know my little girl..." his voice trails off... In my mind's eye I see him turn away, possibly not wanting to cry. He gathers himself and continues, his voice now shaky... "All I have asked, after everything that has happened, is to see her. Just to see her. Not to take her away, not to do anything other than exactly what I said. Spend time with her. She's my daughter, too, and I feel I am owed that much. Considering."

"I completely understand, Graham. Like I told you, I am going to talk to her. In my opinion, she is being very unreasonable about all of this. You weren't the one who did the hurting, you were the one who got hurt. In every way possible, honestly."

"You do understand, in some way."

"I do, yes."

"You must know then, that it doesn't change anything."

"Yes."

"Good."

"I'm just glad you agreed to meet with me."

"Oddly, I am, as well."

"Will you give me your number now, so that I can stop harassing you at work just to get in touch with you?"

"Sure."

I imagine he takes a pen from his pocket and writes his personal number on the napkin that rested under his coffee cup.

"Are you going now?" She asks, her voice low. Saddened somehow.

"Yes. Call when you've spoken to her."

"I will, of course."

Nothing else is said and for the first time after their entire conversation, I see the man, Graham. He throws his empty coffee in the small trash bin next to me, and meets my eyes. They are interesting. Brown and green. Hazel. He gives me a small grin of embarrassment when I don't immediately look away. I can tell his face is a face meant to smile. And with that, he leaves the cafe. I feel my eyebrows raise on their own, as if they have their own mind. I don't know what to think of possibly never seeing him again. 

The woman, Livia, short for Olivia, I am guessing, leaves shortly after him. Our eyes do not meet and she seems to be in a bit of a hurry.

I ponder over what could have happened to them. Their lives. I piece it together throughout my imagination as I sip my tea and listen to the rain beating on the roof.