I sat across the table looking at a man I don’t know. I am studying him, his face, his hands, his mannerisms. His eyes. I supposed in my mind many times they were a cobolt blue or perhaps a shade of hazel but they are not. They are brown. Like mine. I search those eyes for a lot of things.. fear? Hope? Pain/hardship? Is there any sincerity in there? I’ve heard the eyes are the windows to the soul so I continue to look…
He has an ever so slight crack in his voice every now and again as he speaks to me and he fidgets like a school boy. Ah, but I am no school girl and I won’t be captivated by boyish charms besides, this is a man across the table, not a boy.
He has a rugged, worldly look to him (or maybe it’s my imagination because that is what I want to see?) Even at sixty-three and knowing what I know (or at least what I’ve heard anyway) the years have been kind to his outward appearance. He is handsome. His hair is brown. Again, like mine. I dye mine of course so he wouldn’t know what color it really is anyway and I’m not about to divulge this information or any other information for that matter.. just yet anyway. He has a beard and a mustache and I see traces of gray hair in there. Back to the eyes…
The waitress has brought us drinks and we browse the menu. He announces he will probably get an antipasto salad. I have been to this restaurant before, many, many times especially when I worked in this area, with my co workers. I always ordered the antipasto. Nine times out of ten visits, I ordered the antipasto. I make no mention of this but agree that an antipasto sounds good and we decide to split a larger one with a side order of garlic bread.
I’ve met this man before. I’ve known him, to the extent any child can, before. Most of what I recall isn’t good and I’m determined this time, this LAST time, to push that all aside and see for myself who this man is now because for me, it’s now that matters. For now.
I look at his hands. They are on the table. They are not especially big or thick hands but they suit him. They are neatly folded together, fingers entwined into each other except when he reaches for his drink (a cranberry and soda water but that’s another story for another time). It appears as though there may be some arthritis in them, they are ‘crooked’ to an extent. They do not stand out but rather in an odd sort of way, blend in to the red and white checkered table cloth. One of the fingers also seems to have been broken at one time. There is a ring on his left finger but it is not a wedding band. It looks from my side of the table to be perhaps a high school ring? I don’t ask. His nails are clean and trim. These are not working hands, they have not done a lot of physical labor and there are no calluses. Back to the eyes…
Lunch arrives as we continue to make small talk about inconsequential items such as the weather, this past winter and how cold, harsh it was, how much snow there was. There are at least fifty questions on the tip of my tongue along with another at least ten ‘statements’ I would like to make but I hesitate and end up saying nothing. I wonder how many nothings are on the tip of his tongue? Are there any?
Finally, quietly, he asks about my daughter. I offer few details other than the standard “she’s well”.. ”she’s doing really good”. How old is she, he asks. Back to the eyes as I tell him she is now twenty-two. I see something in them. Actually, I see a lot of things there, the least of which is shock. I offer to show him some pictures and scoot around to his side of the table. I pull out my Droid and begin scrolling through my life.. my house, my dog, my timeshares, my daughter.. the renovations I am doing at the house, the slate walk way I put in last summer, my girlfriends and I on vacation, out dancing, my fiance and I at The Sea Watch having dinner… When I am through he is clearly overwhelmed and I am feeling satisfied with this knowledge, knowing he missed all these things. Ah ha, I finally have the upper hand!
As I return to my side of the table, he excuses himself to the rest room, he has to check his blood sugar. What? He is also diabetic? He leaves with his kit and I push around in my mind this past hour or so much as I have pushed the salad around my plate.
He returns to the table and says he does not have “one of those things” (referring to my phone), hell, he doesn’t even have a cell phone he tells me, so he has no photographs to show me but one. One of those hands I studied so astutely earlier reaches around to his back pocket to pull out an old, battered leather wallet. It’s practically falling apart I think to myself as he carefully opens it and turns it in my direction.
There, in the center portion is an old, tattered photograph. Cautiously, painstakingly and silent, he removes the photo and I am able to see it fully now. I recognize the younger face of the man sitting across the table from me – with the younger, much, much younger, face of myself. So much for that upper hand. Back to the eyes…
He has an ever so slight crack in his voice every now and again as he speaks to me and he fidgets like a school boy. Ah, but I am no school girl and I won’t be captivated by boyish charms besides, this is a man across the table, not a boy.
He has a rugged, worldly look to him (or maybe it’s my imagination because that is what I want to see?) Even at sixty-three and knowing what I know (or at least what I’ve heard anyway) the years have been kind to his outward appearance. He is handsome. His hair is brown. Again, like mine. I dye mine of course so he wouldn’t know what color it really is anyway and I’m not about to divulge this information or any other information for that matter.. just yet anyway. He has a beard and a mustache and I see traces of gray hair in there. Back to the eyes…
The waitress has brought us drinks and we browse the menu. He announces he will probably get an antipasto salad. I have been to this restaurant before, many, many times especially when I worked in this area, with my co workers. I always ordered the antipasto. Nine times out of ten visits, I ordered the antipasto. I make no mention of this but agree that an antipasto sounds good and we decide to split a larger one with a side order of garlic bread.
I’ve met this man before. I’ve known him, to the extent any child can, before. Most of what I recall isn’t good and I’m determined this time, this LAST time, to push that all aside and see for myself who this man is now because for me, it’s now that matters. For now.
I look at his hands. They are on the table. They are not especially big or thick hands but they suit him. They are neatly folded together, fingers entwined into each other except when he reaches for his drink (a cranberry and soda water but that’s another story for another time). It appears as though there may be some arthritis in them, they are ‘crooked’ to an extent. They do not stand out but rather in an odd sort of way, blend in to the red and white checkered table cloth. One of the fingers also seems to have been broken at one time. There is a ring on his left finger but it is not a wedding band. It looks from my side of the table to be perhaps a high school ring? I don’t ask. His nails are clean and trim. These are not working hands, they have not done a lot of physical labor and there are no calluses. Back to the eyes…
Lunch arrives as we continue to make small talk about inconsequential items such as the weather, this past winter and how cold, harsh it was, how much snow there was. There are at least fifty questions on the tip of my tongue along with another at least ten ‘statements’ I would like to make but I hesitate and end up saying nothing. I wonder how many nothings are on the tip of his tongue? Are there any?
Finally, quietly, he asks about my daughter. I offer few details other than the standard “she’s well”.. ”she’s doing really good”. How old is she, he asks. Back to the eyes as I tell him she is now twenty-two. I see something in them. Actually, I see a lot of things there, the least of which is shock. I offer to show him some pictures and scoot around to his side of the table. I pull out my Droid and begin scrolling through my life.. my house, my dog, my timeshares, my daughter.. the renovations I am doing at the house, the slate walk way I put in last summer, my girlfriends and I on vacation, out dancing, my fiance and I at The Sea Watch having dinner… When I am through he is clearly overwhelmed and I am feeling satisfied with this knowledge, knowing he missed all these things. Ah ha, I finally have the upper hand!
As I return to my side of the table, he excuses himself to the rest room, he has to check his blood sugar. What? He is also diabetic? He leaves with his kit and I push around in my mind this past hour or so much as I have pushed the salad around my plate.
He returns to the table and says he does not have “one of those things” (referring to my phone), hell, he doesn’t even have a cell phone he tells me, so he has no photographs to show me but one. One of those hands I studied so astutely earlier reaches around to his back pocket to pull out an old, battered leather wallet. It’s practically falling apart I think to myself as he carefully opens it and turns it in my direction.
There, in the center portion is an old, tattered photograph. Cautiously, painstakingly and silent, he removes the photo and I am able to see it fully now. I recognize the younger face of the man sitting across the table from me – with the younger, much, much younger, face of myself. So much for that upper hand. Back to the eyes…
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