Man, woman, waitress

THE WAITRESS

It was empty, for a Thursday. Some regulars, taking advantage of our $8 Labatt pitchers and our one television; some kids, taking advantage of our bouncerless door. As long as the game was on, people were still ordering wings and nachos, but I imagined I'd spend most of my shift watching HGTV with Bill after they left.

In the second quarter, I came out of the kitchen and found the jukebox newly lit, for the first time in ages. I could hear the scratching sound it made over the music, as if pretending to be a vinyl player, like it could fool people that it was authentic, instead of broken. In the glow of its pink light a couple sat across from each other, in one of the far booths. The man was leaning back, hugging his chest, his face turned to the wall. The woman was leaning toward him, black hair covering her face, feet crossed under the table. I approached them, armed with menus.

As I neared them the woman's position changed; she recrossed her legs and withdrew, folding her arms over her chest. Her hair settled around her face, revealing knit eyebrows and pinched lips, an expression I couldn't place. His face turned slightly to reveal a tear sliding down his cheek.

"I can't find my way home; there is no place to hide..." (Scratch, scratch.) I turned away, suddenly uncomfortable. If they needed menus, they could find them at the bar.

THE WOMAN

I didn't know why we came here, to get out of the apartment, I guess, but now that we were sitting here, under a green lamp, too far away to even be seen by the bartender, let alone pretend we were watching the game, I missed the couch.

Harold was quiet. He had gone straight to the jukebox, and I had sat here because it's where I thought he was going. Initially he started talking about the guitar he still had in storage somewhere, which was odd; then he trailed off, which was normal, for him. I looked around for a waiter.

I hummed along with the song Harold had picked - "I don't ask for much...won't you just speak, please?" It was one he'd put on at home quite often, one I enjoyed but didn't know all the words to. Still looking around for some sign of life in this place, I was surprised when I turned back to him and he was all folded in over himself, hiding his face.

"Harold, what's the matter?" I leaned forward; his scratchy cheek, pale and stubbled with brown, greeted me, and as I watched, a tear blazed a pink trail down to his chin. "Honey, what is it?"

He shook his head, not wanting to let me in, again.

THE MAN

Something about the jukebox called to me as soon as we walked in. It was pink and blue, like cotton candy at a fair, like nurseries. It stood in the far corner of the bar; it was clear no one else had given it a second thought, but to me, it was a little neon beacon in the dismal brown bar.

In my coat pocket I found a dollar bill, somehow not too crumpled to fit into the slot. $1 for 3 picks, it said; I only had one in mind, it had begun in my head without my noticing, and now I had to hear it. Of course nobody wants to hear Dave in a bar, but – there, play.

Mary had chosen the booth right next to the jukebox, where we could sit in its warm light, beautifully alone with the music and each other. It is these times I feel she understands me the most - I want to be alone, which means, with her, but out of the apartment, and of course, bars are so public, but this one is uncrowded and -

The song came on. Immediately the chords brought me back, to where I don't know, but all at once, I was overcome with lyrics, with meaning.

"The air is growing thick/ A fear he cannot hide/ The dreaming tree has died..."