The only noise is the inevitable breeze of silvery whispers and clinking dishes against their metal cutlery
The only noise is the inevitable breeze of silvery whispers and clinking dishes against their metal cutlery. The wafting aroma reminds him of the time he worked in a bakery, elbow high in doughs for every pastry imaginable.
"This way to your seat," the waiter's voice, slightly bored with a backdrop of greedily seeing a large tip tells them, and he leads the small group to a table near a window.
As usual, several tables, all seating about four people, have been pushed together, leaving a sort of empty, gaping mouth in the middle. He makes sure to walk around the edge, a voice in the very back telling him he'll get swallowed up otherwise.
The group sits down, and he automatically picks up the binder-encased menu, not even really scanning food choices.
"James?"
He finally hears his name, and as he stares slightly blankly at his wife of two years (it is two years, right?), he realizes that she must have said it a few times. The not really looking yet looking side glances of the people sitting around them tells him that.
He clears his throat, "I'm sorry love," he apologizes, throwing a smile in there, "What were you saying?"
She gives him a quizzical look, but repeats, "I was wondering what you were thinking of getting."
"Oh, I hadn't really picked anything yet," he tells her, "They all sound so delicious."
"Are you feeling alright James?" she asks him.
He clears his throat, "Of course I am. Why would you ask that?"
She shrugs her shoulders, turning back to the menu, "You just don't seem like yourself," she states plainly, looking at him over the top of her menu, holding his gaze for a moment before dropping her eyes back down to the long list of food that they have already tried at some restaurant or another during their travels. Probably better tasting too.
His tongue is suddenly sticking to the roof of his mouth,a nd he looks for the glass of water in front of him. Picking it up, he drains half of it in a gulp and a half, but his tongue keeps sticking.
He realizes, like a bulb turning on as soon as a switch is flicked, what he needs.
"I'll be back in a few minutes. Order whatever for me," he tells him wife, looking straight past those eyes he fell in love with, knowing by some way that the people, his friends for goodness sakes, who are at the table with the are throwing him more odd and curious, one throws a knowing, looks.
"James!" is all he hears, somewhere off in the back of his head, before he's outside, his lungs pulling in particle after particle of pollution mixed with a little bit of air.
He walks a bit, faces clearing around him, eyes becoming more than just floating objects, and words becoming connected to mouths, as the sounds start hitting his ears and his brain in a steadier rhythm.
Finally, he finds a park bench, and all but collapses on it. His hand finds its way first over his jaw, that reddy brown beard people have been talking about, to the definitely brown hair on his head. He can feel it all standing straight up, well, some of it standing straight up.
Sighing, he leans forward, and feels the packet against his chest. Deftly, he pulls out a cigarette, and places it in his mouth, letting it dangle from his lip, teeth locking it in place. Now he's searching through his pockets, trying to find a lighter (does his Montreal Canadians one still work? That was the one he got in Canada. Just picked it up because he needed something to capture his attention). What about matches? (He is sure he grabbed a pack from the hotel before they left. Best thing those places have, matches.)
Giving up the search he just sits there, unlit cigarette hanging from his lip, watching the feet march by, each pair of shoes telling a story. Finally, as the shoes keep going by, telling him stories he can't comprehend, (how can he when he doesn't even know his own shoes' story?) he picks up the background music.
Looking up slowly and looking around the small park where the bench is located, he sees a little girl, brown hair slightly blonde from the sun, and stuck into two ponytails (pigtails?), playing some imaginary game with her doll, which she's commenting on out loud. A book is laying nearby.
He smiles as her pink-jacketed arms point, and swing and bend. He's so busy watching the pink that he doesn't see her coming up to him.
"Smoking's going to kill you," she tells him quite solemnly, the small baby boy doll tucked under one arm, the book clutched in the other hand.
He can't help but smile, and leans his head down so they're eye to eye.
"Really?" he asks, the smile growing even larger.
She nods rapidly, her eyes wide.
"Well you, my girl, are a very smart young one," he tells her.
That gets a smile from her, and she says proudly, 'That's what my mum says."
"Oh really? And where is your mum?" he asks, looking around the park for a taller, older version of this little angel.
She sees this and gives a small laugh, "You won't find her sir."
"And why is that?" he asks, coming back to eye level with her.
"Because she's an angel," she tells him.
This makes hims top a minute and swallow before asking his next question, "Where's your dad then?"
To this she gives a non worried, unattatched shrug, "He left us after I was born," she tells him, kicking her toe into the ground, looking at the ratty doll in her arms.
Those words shake him slightly, and a thought floats through his mind, but he dismisses it so quickly he almost forgets he has it.
"So who are you here with?" he asks, keeping his voice neutral, his emotions under control, just liek he's done with his female co-stars, his emotions separate from the scenes.
She points to a lady standing a few yards away, looking on.
"That's the lady from the 'doption place, Miss Logan," she tells him.
He sends a smile to Miss Logan, and turns back to the small brown haired child in front of him.
"She seems quite nice," he tells her.
"Yeah," she tells him, "But not as nice as my mum."
"No, no one can ever take a mum's place," he agrees.
"Haylee! Time to go!" Miss Logan calls.
"I have to go," she tells him.
"Good-bye" he says after her funning figure. She turns around and waves, pushing her hair off her face with a chubby hand. Only then does he realize that she left her book on the bench next to him.
He sits there thumbing through the book (The Velveteen Rabbit, one he hasn't read in forever). When his wife shows up, he's half way through the book.
"James."
This time he hears his name the first time it's been said, and he looks up blankly, blinks a few times, and gives a smile.
"You didn't come back," she says simply, pushing her wind tossed hair behind her ear.
"I'm sorry," it's all he can think to say.
She sits down beside him, weaves her fingers through his, and picks up the book from his other hand.
"Where'd you get this?" she asks, looking at his face, confusion fighting to be let out.
He ignores this question, and asks one of his own, " What would you think of adopting?" looking straight ahead.
"You mean like Angelina and Brad?" she asks.
"No. One from here A little girl. Haylee," he says quietly, looking from their entwined hands to her face.
For the first time in awhile, she sees him relaxed and wanting something more, wanting to improve, to include, to live. She thinks it over quickly.
"Well, it would be something that we could look into," she tells him, a smile creeping over her face. In truth, she's been wanting a child for a while now, but hasn't brought up the subject, not knowing what he would say. He loves kids, she knows that. But, she didn't know if he wanted one for them. Now she does.
"Thank-you," is all he whispers before kissing her forehead, and they sit there as the story telling shoes walk by, their suppers getting cold in a restaurant with a wide gaping mouth.