The events of this piece of writing unfold over an evening. No! They stretch into the night. At the outset, I apologize to the young couple. I am genuinely sorry.
Yes! I was eavesdropping on their conversation. I had gone to the café after a tiff with my wife. Actually, I wanted to go to a pub and get drunk. Then I changed the “poison” to caffeine, and the place to a café after it struck my mind that my drinking and driving might not go down well with the Los Angeles Police Department (LAPD).
The café was called, “Insomniac’s Den”. It came as a relief for me. I parked my car on the street and stepped into the dimly lit hall. The place was jam-packed. The hall comprised of a huge coffee bar behind which stood a matronly lady in her sixties. She gave me a stoic look and then went back to her vocation.
I looked around. About two dozen people were seated in the room. The seating was somewhere in between ”cozy”, and “cramped”. The walls needed a coat of fresh paint and were adorned by oil paintings which had lost its glaze. Forget it. The whole décor could have made an old-timer nostalgic.
I took a seat on small bench in the corner from where I could watch the street through the glass. It creaked. The question on my mind was whether it had the ability and the capability of sustaining the 170 pounds of mass that I was composed of. Very soon the bench made it clear that it would support my posterior in spite of the fact that it was on its way to its grave.
I kept the keys to the car on the table along with my tablet and surveyed the patrons. Most were students. They either had books or laptop computers opened in front of them. The most peculiar thing about the place was that everybody had a different mug. Maybe this café was oblivious to a historical event called “Industrial Revolution” which brought the concept of “Homogeneous Product” to this world.
Another peculiar line that caught my attention was- “Please do not embarrass us by asking for the Wi-Fi password, if your invoice is less than $ 5”. So, this was the catch.
My eyes stopped at a young man to my left. He must have been about a decade younger than me. He was trying to ward off the chilly weather by rubbing his hands together or wrapping them around the mug of coffee in front of him. His eyes were on the door, indicating that he was awaiting somebody’s arrival. His impatience was evident from the fact that he looked at his watch every few seconds and then his gaze would go back to the front door.
Bingo! This was my “subject” for this evening. I forgot to mention that my favorite pastime was “observing people”.
“This should be fun”, I told myself. I got up to order my cup of coffee. Since I had no use of Wi-Fi, I decided that a $ 2.80 cup of cappuccino would suffice. The matronly owner gave me another of her stoic expressions, as she filled up a white porcelain cup with the caffeine-laced brew and creamed it.
“Is this a cappuccino?” I asked her.
“Yes”, she exclaimed as if she felt I was questioning her brewing abilities. She reiterated it by making a sound while putting the cup on the counter. The “thud” scared me. I convinced my mind that this indeed was “cappuccino”.
******
She walked in soon. She scanned the environment inside the café. She looked at each of us, and making calculations in her mind.
“Oh my God! This was a blind date”.
The eternal optimist in me hoped that she would come and ask me if I was “He”. Unfortunately, this happens only in movies where both the drop-dead gorgeous actors of opposite genders bump into each other by coincidence.
I looked the other way. I did not want to portray myself as a middle-aged pervert (Which I indeed was not).
Then her eyes met his. They both smiled. She waded her way through the seating which was somewhere in between “cozy”, and “cramped”. They hugged.
“Hi”, she said.
“Hello Ashley”, he replied. So her name was Ashley. I made a note in the small notebook which I always carried with myself. I called it the “human log”. This notebook which had been with me for a couple of months was clear evidence of my proximity to “mid-life” crisis.
Small talk started. I started keeping a track of their words.
His name was Paul Dalton (I did not know his name then. I learnt it later), and he was an Investment Banker! What? An Investment Banker? So am I buddy, I wanted to tell him. But at this point of time, Mr. Dalton was more interested in chit-chatting with the lady about weather and punk rock than talking about complex derivatives with another “Investment Banker”.
I thoroughly understood his state of mind. There are indeed far more interesting things in this world than Derivatives.
******
“What made you interested in my post”, she asked him.
Oh! These guys met at some dating site. “Not bad”, I told myself.
He was generic when he replied- “I liked your honesty. Your wit was attractive and your choice of words was exact. Overall I liked your personality”. She blushed. He smiled.
“What are you looking for?” he questioned.
“I told you. I was looking for a SWM for an LTR”. What she meant by that, I wondered. It was a little bit too much for my pea-sized Brain. It was my wife who later enlightened me. SWM meant a single white male and LTR meant a long term relationship. Phew!
I overheard her telling him that she ran a pet-care business and had modeled for a few commercials. Paul’s eyes widened. He was impressed.
Her cellphone rang. She excused herself and went out to talk.
He took out his cellphone and called somebody.
“Al, hey buddy, how are you? It’s going good. Yeah, I met her. She’s cool. Yeah! She’s hot too”
“No, you don’t come here. No, you don’t meet her now. Maybe later. No, am not sleeping with her. No!!! I just met her, you pervert”
“Spare me Al. I kind of like her. She is cute, and peppy, and bubbly, and sweet, and sexy.” Paul went on and on.
“She probably walks dogs? What? Stop being judgmental you nitwit. Get lost you jerk”.
******
She returned with a smile. They sipped the coffee and stared into each other’s eyes. What eyes? They were staring at all over each other.
I missed my wife. I sent her a text saying, “Miss you Darling”.
She replied instantly, “Get some eggs on your way abck. Make sure they are neither too big nor to small”. How Romantic! I wondered.
******
After a while he excused himself to go to the men’s room. When he was out of sight, she fished out her cellphone and dialed a number. Her nervousness was portrayed by the fact that she looked in the direction of the restroom to ensure that he was nowhere in audio or visual distance.
“Mary, yeah! Hi, it’s Ash. Hi. How is it going?”
“Oh yes, he is cute and seems quite nice. Plus he is kind of loaded. He told me he drives a Lexus and lives in Park La Brea”.
“Loaded”, I smiled to myself. What a use of the word.
She continued. “Mmm Hmmm. He is sensitive and his eyes are just so expressive. I mean, he is impressive. But he fumbles with his fork. Plus he lacks a sense of fashion. That can be worked upon” She justified her choice to her friend.
I tried to visualize Paul in fashionable attire with her by his side. They would look cute, I concluded.
“Anyways, I am going to call you back. He fits in. bingo!” she cut the call and blushed to herself.
******
They got up.
“Let’s take a walk”, he said. I wanted to let them know that it was chilly outside, and this chill was not good for a spectator like me. But neither did I have any reason to tell them nor did they have any reason to accede to my demands.
They walked out into the street. I followed.
Oh it was chilly.
In some time they held hands. They were unaware that I was apparently going “mid-life” crisis, and had to buy eggs on my way home. And yes, mind you, the eggs are neither to be too big nor too small.
His hand was on her waist. Hers was on his shoulder. They were unaware that I was having a tiff with my wife, some idiots were fighting in Syria, Europe was going through a debt crisis and Obama administration wanted men to take pregnancy insurance.
They kissed. Oh yes! The defining moment finally arrived. They looked passionate.
They broke from the embrace after a while. “You had your tongue half-way down my throat, and I do not even know what your last name is”, she charged him. I could not help but laugh. I was standing at the bus stop where these two potential “lovebirds” smooched to glory.
He smiled and said, “Dalton, Paul Dalton”. I wonder if it would have made a difference if the chaps name was “Osama Bin Laden or George Herbert Walker Bush”. He would still have had his tongue halfway down her throat.
“Ashley Roberts”, she said. They held hands and walked to the parking lot. He opened the door to her car and let her in. After a while, she drove off.
******
“Hey Pal”, said somebody. I was walking merrily to my car. I never thought it was for me. “Hey Pal”, the voice repeated. I looked back. It was Dalton, Paul Dalton.
“Hello there”, I said.
He looked at me with mixed emotions. “You were prying on us, you realize that?”
“Yes Sir, probably I was”
“Probably? No! You certainly were”, he emphasized.
“I apologize if it affected you”, I told him and added, “I am a writer. So, could not let go of such a beautiful plot to write about”.
Mr. Dalton looked impressed. He flexed his muscles and said, “You saved yourself, buddy”. Make sure I don’t see you around.
We smiled to each other and parted ways.
******
P.S. The plot and the characters are all figments of my imagination. Any resemblance to any place or event or person-dead or alive is purely coincidental.
