restaurant

I cannot live like this.

You smiled at me, in the restaurant today — a chance meeting — and we said a warm Hi. I treasure your daughters. I can picture them being Catherine in fifteen years. Your wife is someone Catherine can see herself being in fifteen years. I like you. I know you like me.

But I sat there and wondered from my table. Are you one of the ones? Probably not. Maybe so. Very likely not. Or I would have heard. But I didn't, so maybe so. But I didn't, so maybe not. But maybe so. What do I see in that smile? A hint of ...? Do I detect a message in the kind greeting? Who will I become, as I parse kind greetings for messages? I can't imagine that you would withhold your feelings and reactions from me and take them elsewhere. But I can't imagine who would, either, and yet they did. Do any of them, or their enablers, see what they've done? See what beautiful fabric they've ripped? Is this my fate? Every Howarya, every G'mornin, every smile a possible symbol of brotherhood broken?

May I take a moment to stand in the rain and cry?