The Girl Who Learned To Kneel

People come in here in such a hurry. So many busy people with places to be. Running in and out, ordering their lattes mid phone call. Today, I have nowhere to be. I invite myself to enjoy this moment. Relish the chance to simply observe life…and people…which might involve some staring. Sorry, husband. He continues to think he can wean me off this OTHER habit. But he is sadly mistaken. It is part of the artist craft—obnoxious staring. Isn’t it? Though part of me feels like I should at least pretend to be busy. Amp up the urgency, the pressing business. One tends to feel like an oddity in this culture without weighty demands.

Perfect. The guy beside me is flat out sleeping AND snoring really loudly at that. Not to mention the assortment of snorts, gasps, gulps—the kind of sounds that make me want to go over there and slap him silly. Go home, man. Take to a bed. I was thinking I might use this time to be reflective…meditative, contemplating this distinct period of my life where I appear to be waiting for things…waiting for a baby, waiting for a career, waiting for Simon to finish his PhD. But reflection is seeming less and less likely with congested snore man having nap time two paces to the right.

If I told you he was wearing an expensive looking brown leather jacket and white loafers, would you be more or less surprised?

Oh man, he is going to be so embarrassed when he wakes up. Oh, wait…NOW. Cue webcam. Snore man awakens. “Was I being loud?” he asks me. AWKWARD. “Well, you were snoring…a little.” He mumbles something about work and retreats to the safety of his cell phone. A quick glance in his direction a few minutes later, along with a smile I might add (the smile is crucial to my staring practice—dilutes the tension), and I observe that he is now forcing himself awake, head on hand. This posture is accompanied by a kind of aggressive back and forth sway. But with my razor vision, I can see that his eyelids are once again drooping and he appears to be in pain—the keeping yourself awake kind of pain—bringing me right back to grade nine English when I would pop fruity Mentos (at my father’s suggestion), and pray for a seventy-two minute sugar surge. But inevitably, I would still fall asleep behind Romeo and Juliet, having convinced myself that Mr. Grady was none the wiser. But come to think of it, he did call me ‘Rachel’ for an entire year as I rang in his lottery tickets at our local drugstore, despite my blaring IDA name tag. Maybe it was my surreptitious slumber that bred his disinterest in my true identity. In my defense, he was boring as hell!

But forgive my digression.

Back to the action, where to the left of me sits an older woman with an inordinate amount of phlegm, which she is sucking back at thirty second intervals. Ahhhhh! I am surrounded by bodily functions. Incidentally, the subject of bodily functions came up this morning when Simon was basking in my presence after his morning run. And I quoteth: “My love for you is like bodily functions that burst forth uncontrollably.” Quite the simile, don’t you think? How sweet, dear. My love for you is like a tornado that rips barn doors off their hinges. No, that’s not right. My love for you is like the ants in our apartment that appear in the darndest of places, at the darndest of times, demanding an impassioned response…um…better.