“I got divorced eight months ago — such a wonderful woman, my best friend. She just didn’t know what she wanted to do. It was this, it was that. Now it’s a nurse.”

“It’s a pattern, that’s what it is.”

“Yep.”

“How old is she?”

“Forty-two.”

“No, she’s done. There’s nothing she can do.”

“You think?”

“Yeah, my sister wants to be a vet’ and she’s like fifty. That’s eight years of schooling — like forget it, you’re done, you messed up.”

We agree so much. We’ve been down the same road, we can relate. We have the same views. Yes, that’s right. Oh, yes, I know. I know you know because we are getting along so well. 

Now we talk of politics. From divorce and relationships to politics.  Bush: a disaster. Obama: a saint.

Now we talk of cell phones. He has Verizon. She has AT&T. He can teach her, there is room to grow.

Let’s talk of shoes. Let’s laugh. His body’s turned, her’s crossed.

“We never had any financial problems, but we fought like dogs,” she says of her ex-husband. “I never really knew him.”

She senses that failure suddenly.

Instead, she speaks of her career, her successes. She is a strong, modern sort of woman. She struggles, she works hard. No fooling her.

Now back to his divorce.

He: “Regrets – ”

She: “Waste of time.”

“Living this fantasy – ”

“Fantasy?”

“ — with another man – ”

“So soon?”

She shows disgust. Assumes he must be hurting.

Now he talks of experience: Alcoholics Anonymous, AL-ANON. She judges, he swallows.

She’s a vegetarian. He asks if she’s vegan. She likes cheese too much.

“I was too skinny. Working out every day,” he says seriously.

Subtle body talk.

She touches her legs and talks of someone else’s; he looks as if he can see that other pair of legs.

She gets up to get more iced tea. He offers to pay, she takes his card.

Now he sits alone: like a bird of paradise, his female audience gone. Stretches, plays with the gold bracelet on his wrist. Breathes heavy. Watches crows in the nearby trees.

“Ninety cents,” she says with her refill in her hand. “I bet Denny’s doesn’t charge.”

They laugh.

You see? We are getting along. Let’s make another date? Yes? Great, let’s go to the beach. I love the beach? I love the beach!  

Who are these people?

Am I one of them?

The sun is warm on my shoulders; my iced tea is cold. Son of a bitch, I want to tell her to run. He looks like a predator. He looks like every father who leaves a wife and gets a tan. He has a sharpish look to him, ratty. I don’t like it.

I want to tell him to run, too. She doesn’t know any better. She’s afraid to be alone. She tricks him even now, as he tells her about his soon to be ex-wife living with another man. She shakes her head, creases her brow, pretends to have unassailable morals. Run, you son of a bitch, Run!  

She’s desperate; I can smell it on her. She has a ponytail underneath a white cap. A sporty one – not a baseball cap – as if getting ready this morning was intentionally casual. She screams Love me! I can hear it, how can he not?

And him! He’s wearing a tank top, for Christ’s sake. His hair is smoothed back. He smiles with his eyes, with his body turned towards her as if she is already pleasuring him. He cannot love her.

Christ! You are a man! You feel nothing but heat and cold! Run, you stupid woman. Run! Didn’t you see? He swallowed when you were confused by AL-ANON! Don’t you see he works hard to fool you? Why do you fool him back?

Stop it and run! Both of you! Run!

But they do not run and I am powerless to stop it. I watch from beneath; feeling the heat on my skin, the cool on my lips; touching my legs and talking about how slender they are though I do not work out. I hear the words come out of my mouth. I watch his face smile, his mouth open to laugh. I feel nothing, worse than nothing. I feel a quiet so cold and calm and haunting that I shiver beneath warm skin.