Curiosity ~ Lucidity ~ Humanity
She’d come into our restaurant three times a week, on average. Like clockwork she came, in the late morning just after we opened.
She’d pick up her food from the slow conveyor belt, then walk to the register to pay. We would hand her the fork. All she ever said was “Thank you,” in a thick accent. It was clear she didn’t speak our language.
And there she would sit, for hours. After finishing her food, she’d smoke cigarettes, and watch her tablet. She used headphones. She wasn’t there at the crowded hour, so we never asked her to leave.
For nine months she did this. She was a regular, as familiar as the flies, and not taking much more space than they do.
In June, she showed us her phone. “I asked my student to translate this into Mandarin. You’ve always been kind to me. The school year is over so I’m going back to America tomorrow. You won’t see me again. Thank you so much!”
Very few westerners come to our restaurant, so the fork has stayed in our drawer for the five years since she left. We joke that it gets lonely
She screamed at her dying gay son that he was going to Hell. Hospital security had to be called in.
Two days later, he succumbed to AIDS. His mother—apparently remorseful for her earlier condemnation—sobbed by his body. Multiple witnesses testified to this, as well as the fact that the attending doctor whispered in her ear. His hand on her back, it was obvious to everyone he was trying to comfort her.
Obvious. What else would he be doing, besides offering compassion to a mother in mourning?
She claimed to remember what he said, verbatim. According to the formal complaint, his exact words were:
“You are going to Hell, and you will never see your son again. Because he’s going to Heaven. You will burn in Hell for eternity, and it will hurt, you ugly worthless cunt.”
No one was close enough to have heard what he said. But the doctor’s atheism was a matter of public record; there was no precedent for him mentioning the afterlife. Nor did he have a history of verbally abusing women. The allegations against him were patently absurd, on their surface. It was clear he was the victim of a woman burning with anger and grief, lashing out at the nearest receptacle. She was prone to screaming, at multiple volumes.
The complaint was thrown out.
His supervisor told him, privately, “You probably shouldn’t have said it, George.”
“Good thing I didn’t say it, Anthony.”
But his smirk, as always, revealed everything.
Dear piece of paper I’m pretending is my diary,
There’s no chance he likes me as much as I like him, the exact WAY that I like him. Right? Because that would just be too great.
Let’s look at this logically.
Scenario one: He likes me the way that I like him. As in, platonically. But! He doesn’t like me as much I like him. And that’s OK! These things don’t happen overnight. I can wear him down. I can make him my best friend/adopted brother. I can non-sexually seduce him. There’s time.
Scenario two: He likes me as MUCH as I like him, but in a romantic, sexual way. Which means I’ll have to reject him. Oh god that will suck.
Scenario three: He likes me the way that I like him, with the intensity that I like him. He matches me in both depth of love, and also in love’s category. This is the best of the scenarios.
(It was the third scenario, thankfully. I brought him home to meet your grandma three
months after I write this note. My mom instantly adored him and unofficially adopted him.
Which you already know, but I thought you’d appreciate reading the bare bones origin of me and
your uncle. My handwriting has barely changed since I was in college. If it weren’t for the fact
that I’m now writing in darker color pen, could you tell the difference? Anyway I’m enclosing
fifty dollars. Don’t spend it all on beer. And you should clean your room, I’m guessing.)
Bio-Fragment: Alaina Hammond's friends think she's cool. This is because her friends are nerds, and therefore their sense of coolness is extremely skewed.