Mallory lied this morning. Still lying in bed at 8:30, she answered my question with a grumble.
“I was out with the girls. Late. Let me go back to sleep.”
I let her go back to sleep. Even had she come to bed with me at 11, she’d stay there til 10. And that clearly did not happen last night. She came to bed early in the morning. I then, like her now, just rolled over and went back to sleep. But it must have been around 3 or so, because I felt pretty rested but not about to wake for the day.
Even on Saturday mornings, I like to get out of bed around 6:30 or 7. After a quick breakfast of two scrambled eggs and a cup of OJ, I pick up something to read to start off my weekend: her Bible if I want to seem better, the newspaper if I want to think better, my novel if I want to feel better. Mallory prescribed the novel this morning.
For about 45 minutes I let the sun come up and replace the ambient light from the lamp across the room. It was not until I plugged the bookmark back into its place that I called into Mal to see if she was going to get up and go out with me this morning. Her answer was hardly audible, muffled by her mountain of pillows.
So today, like most Saturdays, I headed to Panera down the street on my own. That was typical, but this morning I did not expect her to join me at all, which was considerably less typical.
I always fill and finish at least two coffees before Mallory shows up. And when she does, we typically wait 30 minutes or so before ordering lunch. It was a nice routine and made us regulars here. I’d never been a regular anywhere until about a year ago when we moved into the Southside. Now the baristas, cashiers, and manager all know our names and sing their hellos in a chorus as we jingle the bell on the front door. Well, as I jingle the bell. Mal gets her own song around 11 – if the restaurant is not too busy at that point.
The rest my heart enjoyed as I lost myself in my novel this morning lasted so long as I continued to read. The minute I dropped the bookmark back in between the pages, the comfort was gone, and I began to again have a one-sided argument with Mallory. She wasn’t actually a part of the discussion, but I answered for her with what I assumed she would say. Her comments were irritating, but it would have been far too generous to have her say anything less caustic than what she did.
Mallory’s lies hang around her much like the smell of the sweetly bitter perfume that she remains so loyal to. She never forsakes the stench, nor it her, and dishonesty is as much of her character as any other quality. Her superficial friends may have never noticed how integral her faithlessness was to who she is, but I hope that I am always at least perceptive enough to realize something so clear.
In spite of my easy realizations of her unfortunate character flaws, I stay with Mallory for a number of justifiable reasons. A) She is beautiful. Unreasonably so. And she is dating me. Which is equally as unreasonable. If for nothing but my reputation, I would put up with her. But her beauty is worth much, much more than that. Just waking up with that face in view is enough to quiet most arguments against her. And I need that justification most mornings. B) She pulls her own weight. She cooks dinner about half the nights throughout the week, and washes the dishes the other half, contrariwise to my contributions. She takes out the trash, walks the dog, cleans up after him, and sanitizes the bathroom. She is a good roommate. C) She listens to my artistic rants when no one else shows any interest. I don’t think she cares one iota about the art itself, but she knows I care, and if there is one positive trait in her, it is that she tries to care about the things others care about. At least when she’s with them. At least she makes it seem like she is trying. I can’t imagine that she will ever care about art half as much as I do. And I don’t think she cares to. But that’s enough for me. Most days. Some days I wonder if it should be enough.
Today I’m wondering.
There is a girl sitting the whole way across the dining room from me. When she was at the counter, I heard her order a breakfast sandwich with egg white, spinach, and no cheese or meat. That kind of order smacks of the same kind of priss that defines Mallory’s preferences, but she ordered sweetly, thanked the cashier genuinely, and waited patiently for her order to be delivered. Perhaps those preferences are not inextricably tied to that attitude.
Based on the laptop and books that are taking up a majority of her table, the girl is almost certainly a student. I’d guess she lives about half way between my neighborhood and campus, which is about two miles away. I’ve never seen her here before. Maybe she just got sick of studying in the university library and wanted to try something new. Even if she’s a freshman, she’s had months to spend a Saturday morning here, and she hasn’t until now. This is a break from whatever it is that she normally does.
I note immediately that in spite of this girl’s homely attractions, she is nowhere near as beautiful as Mallory. I know it’s shallow, but that’s typically the first thing I notice about girls. It reassures me that I’m lucky to be dating Mal. It reminds me of the value of our relationship.
But this girl is different. She is more, maybe. She has qualities that Mallory does not. Her lips and cheeks and eyes stay in a resting smile. Not a cheesy grin, but a general contentedness that never leaves the corners of her mouth. Her eyes do not sparkle and are not restless with energy but remain clear with directed, observant interest. I guess she is fairly intelligent, or at the least, a studious learner.
Mallory lied about who she was with last night. Her dishonesty snaps back into the present like the pain of a momentarily forgotten blister. This isn’t the first time. This is far from the first time. Mallory likes to spend nights out with more attractive men. As far as I can tell, she has never “cheated” on me. I think she needs the attention. She needs the affirmation of her beauty that a man of my looks cannot provide in spite of my faithful proclamations of undying affection. She toys with these men, talks, flirts, gives a timely touch on the arm, let’s them walk her back to our apartment, maybe even gives a quick peck on the jaw (hardly the compensation that they expect), and then leaves them to wonder if they’ll be any luckier with someone else next weekend.
I know she does this. Often. And strangely enough, it is not what bothers me the most. Her lies are always the worst of it. Sometimes I wonder if she feels like she can be honest with me at all. If she could ever let me in. She knows I care about the inner workings of people. It’s peppered throughout my writing. Maybe she isolates herself to avoid being turned into a character. But I love my characters dearly, and I know them intimately. I want to say the same for her.
But this girl across the room wears her heart like a badge of honor. Her face is the town crier for her soul. Anyone who cares to watch her will know her, know her desires and needs and interests and thoughts. She cries out, not for attention, but because she has no need to whisper. Sincerity is her halo, unfettered honesty her coat of arms. She is a friend of the world.
She is taken with the group of 70 somethings at the tables outside. I’ve seen this old group of friends here a number of times. Once every couple months they come here just to spend the morning together, to talk, catch up, and share life. When the weather is less welcoming, they make a lot of noise in the dining room. They are a rowdy bunch, in spite of their years. Today, noiseless behind panes of glass, they revel in an overenthusiastic pantomime.
One man seems to be teasing his wife by wearing his hat backwards. She, irritated by his childishness, tries unsuccessfully to knock the hat off of his head. The play evokes smiles all around outside, and a single smile inside, painted across the lips of the girl. Her smile, not theirs, evokes mine. The man, having evaded his wife’s attempts at his hat, now adjusts the bill to stick out sideways on his head. Even I can agree with his wife that he looks ridiculous. The girl, it seems, almost laughs out loud at the jubilant pair outside. She cannot help but share their infectious joy.
She looks directly into my eyes. I look away.
But could not possibly look away fast enough. She caught me staring. She saw my stupid grin, and now in shame I keep my head bowed. Undoubtedly, she smirks at catching me and witnessing my embarrassment. As one who lives life completely exposed and uninhibited and honest, she has nothing to do but laugh at the uncomfortable privacy of others. She, more than anything at this moment, would like to welcome me to her table. To laugh about the seniors outside. To laugh about me being caught up in her enjoyment. To laugh about this unlikely connection we’ve made and a friendship birthed from a smile. To laugh at the serendipity.
I suppose I disappoint her as I pack up and leave. It is not yet 10:30, far before I generally leave, before my second cup of coffee, too early to give Mal a chance to arrive (not that she would). Yet I leave.
The girl cannot have truly expected for me to come over and talk to her. No one is as open with their lives as she seems to be. It’s not normal to be so overtly friendly. She must experience many uninitiated, unfulfilled friendships. Her loneliness is not one of a lack of friends and acquaintances but of every connection lost in anonymity. She must mourn the shadows of humanity in which many are strangers to her affection.
As I walk down the street away from Panera, the shock of being caught in accidental personal connection fades and is replaced with loss. The loss of the girl and all that she is. Behind her safehold of lies, Mallory will never be as openly and unabashedly honest as that stranger. Not remotely close. The girl’s sincerity is wasted on a cloistered world. Her sincerity was wasted on me.
But, I console myself, at least I still have a beautiful woman at home in my bed.